hrough   he 


urf    moke 


Through  the  Turf  Smoke 


Through 
the  Turf  Smoke 


THE  LOVE,  LORE,  AND  LAUGHTER, 
OF  OLD  IRELAND 


BY 


SEUMAS    MAC  MANUS 

("MAC") 

AUTHOR  or  "  'TWAS  IN  DHROLL  DONEGAL," 
"  THE  LEADIN'  ROAD  TO  DONEGAL,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY  &  McCLURE  CO. 
1899 


COPYRIGHT,  1899,  BY 
DOUBLEDAY  &  McCLURE  CO. 


To 

ETHNA  CARBERY 

Your  fond  heart  throbbed  for  our  country  s 

story, 
Your  great  heart  glowed  for  our 

country's  glory  : 
Because  it  -was  so,  O  Banbha's 

daughter, 
My  tribute  take  o'er  the 

far,  far,  water. 


2060577 


To  My  American  Readers: 

TRAGEDY  and  pathos  go  leor  there  are  in 
our  lives,  toilsome  struggle  and  patient  suf- 
fering; but  when  we  gather  around  the  turf 
fire — old  and  young,  boys  and  girls — Care 
slips  like  a  cloak  from  our  shoulders,  the 
oldest  is  for  the  hour  a  child,  gaiety  crowds 
the  cabin,  and  merriment  fills  all  hearts. 
The  wand  of  wit  is  laid  upon  us:  the  joke, 
the  banter,  and  the  merry  story,  pass;  and 
the  folk-tale,  old  as  the  babble  of  our 
streams,  and  still  as  fresh  and  sweet,  is  lis- 
tened to  by  ears  that  hearken  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  as  fondly  as  they  did  for  the 
first.  Alike,  grey  old  pows  and  yellow  little 
curly  locks  shake  in  sympathy  for  the  sor- 
rows of  the  hero,  and  wag  with  delight  for 
his  devilment  and  drollery.  The  same  hearts 
that  rang  out  a  little  peal  of  childish  laugh- 
ter beneath  a  smoke-blacked  Irish  roof-tree, 
have,  afterwards,  on  red  fields,  often  raised 


x  Introduction 

a  rann  that  fluttered  the  folds  of  the  defiant 
and  triumphant  flag. 

In  my  remote  and  mountain-barred  Done- 
gal, the  people,  for  a  niggard  living,  strive 
with  a  surly  sea  and  wrestle  with  a  stubborn 
soil;  they  are  poor  as  paupers  and  hospitable 
as  millionaires.  But  the  wit,  the  imagina- 
tion, the  poetry,  the  virtues,  the  soul,  of  the 
most  miserable  amongst  them  the  wealth  of 
Cro3sus  couldn't  purchase.  Civilization  (with 
its  good  and  its  ills)  has  not  yet  quite  felt 
itself  at  home  amongst  us;  books  are  few; 
so,  there,  the  shanachy,  the  teller  of  tales 
and  the  singer  of  songs,  still  gathers  in  his 
old  time  glory;  on  long  winter  nights  the 
world  comes  and  seats  itself,  spell-bound,  at 
his  feet.  From  early  childhood  I,  with  my 
little  tribute  of  admiration,  sat  by  his  feet. 
The  glory  of  him  dazzled  me,  and  I  dreamt 
of  one  day  faring  forth  and  conquering 
worlds  for  myself. 

— I  was  a  child,  I  said,  and  dreamt  dreams. 

MAC. 
NEW  YORK,  OicMhe  Brighde,  1899. 


Contents 


THE  LEADIN'  ROAD  TO  DONEGAL  i 

THE  BOYNE  WATER 21 

THE  QUAD-DHROOP-EDS  .....  45 
THE  PRINCE  OF  WALES'  OWN  DONEGAL  MILITIA  Co 
BARNEY  KODDY'S  PENANCE  .  .  89 

DINNY  MONAGHAN'S  LAST  KEG  .  .  .  .113 
BILLY  BAXTER  .......  141 

THE  COUNSELLOR 167 

THE  MASTHER  AND  THE  BOCCA  FADH  .  .  189 
FATHER  DAN  AND  FIDDLERS  FOUR  .  .  .211 
JACK  WHO  WAS  THE  ASHYPET  ....  231 
JACK  AND  THE  LORD  HIGH  MAYOR  ,  251 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal* 

'TWAS  this  was  the  way — 

Thady  Eooney  was  a  tailyer  be  trade,  and 
Molly  Maguire  was  as  purty  a  hand  at  the 
spinnin'  wheel  as  ye'd  meet  in  the  five  par- 
ishes. Thady  was  a  clane,  stout,  sthrappin', 
fine,  ecktive  fellow,  and  as  daicent  as  his 
father  afore  him — and  that's  sayin'  a  dale 
for  him.  Molly  was  a  brave,  sonsy,  likely 
lassy,  that  knew  how  to  get  the  blind  side  of 
the  boys,  and  as  clane-stepped  a  gissach  as 
thripped  to  Mass  on  a  Sunday.  Now,  Thady 
was  on  the  lookout  for  a  bit  of  a  naybour's 
daughter  that  would  be  shootable  to  take 
care  of  him;  and  Molly — well,  throgs,  Molly 
had  no  sort  of  objections  to  takin'  care  of 
a  naybour's  son,  purvided  she  got  one  to  her 
likin'.  So,  as  might  be  expected,  Thady 

*  The  skeleton  of  this  tale  is  traditional,  and  to  be 
met  with  in  many  parts  of  the  North  of  Ireland, 
applied  to  various  towns. 


4         Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

yocked,*  and  he  put  his  comether  on  Molly, 
and  Molly,  she  blarneyed  Thady  to  his 
heart's  content,  till  the  end  of  it  was — as  was 
nath'ral — they  both  marrid  an'  settled  down, 
to  stick  to  one  another  for  betther  or  worse, 
through  fair  an'  through  foul.  An'  Thady, 
who  was  as  industhrus  a  man  as  ivir  laid 
down  his  two  hands,  set  to  work,  an'  he  built 
as  tight  an'  snug  a  bit  of  a  cabin  as  ye'd  may- 
be ax  to  see,  jist  on  a  bit  of  waste  ground 
at  a  cross-roads  where  five  roads  met,  and 
himself  and  Molly  moved  intil  it;  an'  Thady 
went  on  with  his  tailyerin',  and  Molly  with 
her  spinnin',  and  him  whistlin'  and  her  sing- 
in' — with  wee  inthervals  of  love-makin' — as 
merry  as  the  larks  and  as  happy  as  the  day 
was  long.  And  for  nearly  twelve  months 
that  pair  was  held  up  as  a  moral  for  the 
counthry  for  miles  about,  and  it  was  a  de- 
light to  pass  by  their  door  and  listen  to  their 
light-heartedness.  In  all  that  time  an  awk- 
'ard  word  nivir  crossed  the  lips  of  the  one  or 
the  other  of  them.  But,  as  ill-luck  would 
have  it,  the  divil — for  it  was  no  other — 
tempted  them  to  agree  one  night  that  they 
*  Began. 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal     5 

could  do  worse  nor  buy  a  slip  of  a  pig. 
Which  of  them  was  so  misfortunate  as  to  in- 
therduce  the  subject  I  can't  tell,  but  anyhow 
the  bit  of  a  sucker  pig  was  bought  and 
fetched  home,  an'  a  snug  wee  bed  of  nice, 
clane,  oat  sthraw  Molly  spread  for  it  in  the 
one  corner  in  the  tother  end  of  the  house 
from  their  own  bed.  And  that  night  Thady 
had  a  bad  dhraim.  He  dhraimt  that  the 
goose  an'  the  lap-boord,  afther  doin'  a  couple 
of  very  lively  hornpipes  an'  a  single  reel  on 
the  floor,  sat  down  on  the  bed  to  make  love, 
plantin'  themselves  right  atop  of  his  stom- 
ach. And  with  that  he  wakened  up,  and  be 
the  powdhers  of  war,  what  does  he  find  lyin' 
across  him  on  the  bed  but  the  sucker  pig! 

"Husthee!  husthee!"  says  Thady,  givin' 
the  pig  a  couple  of  smart  slaps  that  sent  it 
skurryin'  an'  gruntin'  away  to  its  own  corner 
again. 

"  Molly,"  says  Thady,  "  I  seen  pigs  in  me 
day  with  more  modesty  than  that  wee  pig  of 
ours." 

"Arrah,  Thady,"  says  Molly,  says  she, 
"  sure  what  great  wit  could  ye  be  afther  ex- 
pectin'  of  the  lakes  of  it,  the  crathur?  Sure, 


6         Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

it's  what  it  felt  lonely,  jist  lake  a  Christian 
would,  an'  hearin'  you  snorin'  as  ye  know 
ye  do,  Thady,  in  yer  sleep,  the  crathur  come 
up  to  ye,  thinkin'  it  was  maybe  its  mother 
was  in  it." 

"Well,  I'm  sure,  Molly,"  says  Thady, 
"that  I  feel  ondher  a  mighty  great  favour 
to  it  intirely  for  the  compliment  it  done  me; 
but  all  the  same,  mother  or  no  mother,  I'd 
thank  it  to  keep  its  distance,  and  know  its 
place  for  the  time  to  come." 

Well,  that  fared  well  till  the  nixt  night 
wore  round,  an'  Thady  had  the  very  self- 
same oncommon,  wondherful  dhraim  about 
the  lap-boord  and  the  goose;  and  wakenin' 
up  lake  the  night  afore,  there  was  me  brave 
sucker  pig  settlin'  himself  for  a  sleep  atop 
of  Thady,  as  much  at  home  as  an  alderman 
in  an  aisy-chair! 

"Husthee!  husthee!  Molly  Maguire,  I'm 
sorry  to  say  that  sucker  pig  of  yours  has 
very  small  manners." 

"Arrah,  Thady  Eooney,"  says  Molly, 
"  can't  ye  not  be  reflectin'  on  the  bit  of  an 
orphan  pig,  that  isn't  come  to  the  time  of 
day  to  have  sinse?  Maybe,  Thady  avour- 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal     7 

neen,  whin  ye  were  lake  it  yerself,  ye  might 
put  yer  manners  in  yer  weskit  pocket,  and 
no  one  miss  them  much." 

"  No  odds  for  that,  Molly  Maguire,"  says 
Thady.  "Ye  mind  the  ould  copy-book 
headline  that  said,  '  Too  much  familiarity 
breeds  contimpt,'  and  I  considher  that 
sucker  pig  is  pushin'  his  familiarity  on  me 
rather  farther  than  I  wish  for.  I  put  cor- 
rackshin  on  him  on'y  last  night  for  the  same 
dhirty  action,  and  I  thought  it  was  a  lesson 
to  him,  but  it  saims  he  can't  take  a  hint 
onless  ye  impress  it  on  him,  with  a  stout 
stick;  an'  throth,  Molly,  an'  I'm  tellin' 
it  to  ye  now,  if  I  have  to  dhraw  me 
hand  over  him  again,  he'll  know  what  it's 
for." 

"  Faith,  Thady  Kooney,"  says  Molly,  "  it's 
well  it  becomes  ye  to  talk  that  way  of  the 
poor  baste  that  didn't  know,  no  more  than 
that  bed-post  there,  what  ye  were  layin'  the 
corrackshin  on  it  for.  If  the  crathur  only 
gets  time  it'll  gather  sense  yet." 

"  That's  all  very  good,  Molly,"  says  Thady, 
"but  if  I  don't  corrackt  it  I'm  sure  you'll 
not,  and  a  nice  pig  we'll  make  of  it  then, 


8         Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

won't  we,  without  breedin'  or  daicency;  it'll 
scandalise  us  over  the  parish,  that's  what  it'll 
do.  If  it  has  a  mind  to  pick  up  sense  it  had 
betther  be  quick  about  it,  or  my  patience  'ill 
wear  out,  and  I'll  be  tempted  to  do  somethin* 
that  'ill  make  it  regret  it  didn't  pick  itself 
up  in  time." 

Well,  as  they  say  in  the  stories,  that  fared 
well  that  night  again,  and  it  didn't  fare  ill, 
and  the  nixt  night  wore  round.  And  me 
bould  Thady  dhraimt  the  very  same  dhraim 
that  third  night  again,  and  he  bounced 
up  in  the  bed,  tumblin'  the  pig  off  ontil 
the  floor,  and  it  run  away  gruntin'  to  its 
corner. 

"  Great  Goghendies!  but  it's  me's  the  suf- 
f erin'  man,"  says  Thady.  "  Molly  Maguire," 
says  he,  "  get  up  and  put  breedin'  on  yer 
pig!" 

"  Nobbut,  Thady  Kooney,"  says  Molly, 
"get  you  up  and  put  breedin'  on  your  own 

Pig!" 

"Ye  lie!"  says  Thady. 

"Thanky,  Misther  Eooney,"  says  Molly, 
"it's  only  a  well-wisher  would  tell  me  my 
faults." 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal     9 

"  The  pig's  none  of  mine,  or  he'd  know 
betther,"  says  Thady. 

"The  pig  is  yours,  andjeo  signs  on  him, 
he's  as  conthrairy  as  his  masther,"  says 
Molly. 

"  Throth,  then,  if  I'm  conthrairy,"  says 
Thady,  "  I  could  blow  me  breath  on  them 
smit  me." 

"  Maybe,  then,  that  same  wouldn't  be  cov- 
eted, for  it  was  the  ill  day  for  some  people 
when  yer  onlucky  breath  come  about  them 
first." 

"  I  wish  to  the  Lord  them  people  had 
thought  that  twelve  months  ago!  If  they 
had,  I  could  have  been  a  happy  man  this 
night,  an'  own  for  a  wife  the  pick  of  the 
parish,  instead  of  bein'  the  miserable  divil 
I  am,  with  the  ugly,  good-for-nothin' 
cross-grained  spitfire  of  a  woman  that  the 
priest  makes  me  call  me  own  now,"  says 
Thady. 

"  Well,  Thady  Rooney,  I  wisli  to  the  Lord 
the  same! "  says  Molly.  "  An'  as  regards 
yer  bein'  a  miserable  divil,  I  agree  with  ye 
there,  too.  No  one  ivir  accused  Thady 
Rooney,  or  one  belonging  to  him,  of  bein' 


io       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

anything  else  all  their  lives  but  miserable 
divils — an'  miserable,  lazy  divils,  too.  About 
the  pick  of  the  parish — ye  got  that — ivery 
one  give  in  ye  got  that — and  sure  it  was  the 
nine  days'  wondher  how  such  a  miserable, 
spavined,  ill-formed,  yallow  rickle  of  skin 
and  bone,  with  a  countenance  as  forbiddin' 
as  ould  Nick's  himself,  with  a  hump  on  his 
back  and  a  halt  in  his  step,  and  his  two  eyes 
watchin'  each  other  like  murdher  across  his 
snub  nose,  for  fear  one  of  them  would  be 
af ther  takin'  the  advantage  of  the  other — 
sure  I  say  it  was  the  nine  days'  wondher  what 
the  dickens  she  could  see  in  ye  that  made  her 
take  ye,  barrin'  it  was  bekase  she  knew  ye 
would  be  so  safe  on  her  hands  that  no  one 
but  the  divil  would  think  of  runnin'  away 
with  ye,  and  even  him  atself  would  be  only 
too  glad  to  fetch  ye  back  as  not  worth  yer 
room.  And  throth,  I  may  tell  ye,  that  that 
eame  nine  days'  wondher  to  them  has  been 
a  nine  months'  wondher  to  me,  an'  if  the 
divil  curses  me  with  ye  much  longer,  I'm 
misdoubtin'  me  but  the  wondher  'ill  wear 
me  out  me  life." 

"Ay,  there  she  goes  now,"  says  Thady, 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal     11 

"  there  she  goes.  Jist  set  her  tongue  agoing 
and  Boneyparty  himself,  at  the  head  of  all 
his  rajiments,  couldn't  stop  it." 

"  Faix,  and  it's  no  wondher,  for  it's  sorely 
fetched  out  of  me,  when  I  have  a  skin-flint 
such  as  you  to  dale  with,"  says  Molly.  "  But 
at  the  same  time,  maybe  I  could  hould  me 
tongue  with  you,  Thady  Kooney." 

"  I  doubt  it,  Molly  Maguire,"  says  Thady, 
says  he. 

"  Do  ye,  throgs?  "  says  Molly. 

"  I  do,  medam,"  says  Thady. 

"  Well  and  good  then,"  says  Molly.  "  I'll 
thry  ye  out  for  it;  and  let  it  be  that  the  first 
spaiks  a  word,  bad,  good,  or  ondifferent,  'ill 
have  to  mind  the  pig." 

"  Done,"  says  Thady,  and  he  slaps  his 
knee. 

Well,  be  the  hokey,  that  was  the  quan- 
dharry.  The  conthrariness  begun  to  work 
Molly,  an'  up  she  bounces,  though  it  wasn't 
more  nor  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  put- 
tin'  on  a  good  rousin,  blazin'  fire,  and  boilin' 
as  sthrong  a  dhrap  of  tay  as  iver  come  out 
of  the  black  pandy,  to  rise  her  heart,  she  sits 
herself  down  to  her  spinnin'  wheel  and  starts 


12       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

spinning  at  the  same  time  humming  "  The 
Geese  in  the  Bog/'  this  way* — 


at  such  a  rate  that  Thady,  poor  man,  might 
as  well  think  of  sleeping  in  a  beeskep.  But 
TEady  wasn't  going  to  allow  himself  to  be 
aggerivated  into  spaiking  so  aisy  as  that.  So 
up  me  brave  Thady  jumps,  and  afther  a  pit- 
cher of  tay  that  was  enough  to  lift  a  man's 
heart  up  through  the  riggin',  he  crosses  his 
legs  on  the  table,  and  dhrawin'  a  pair  of  half- 
finished  trousers  that  he  was  doin'  for  Father 
Luke  to  him,  he  stharts  sewing  the  trousers 
and  whistlih'  "  The  Black  Joke,"  lake  this— 


m      0  ^—  *^  •* 


1  Phew-ew-ew-ew-ew  •  ew-«w  -  ew-evr-«w .  ev-ew-ew  • 


ew-ew-ew.ew-cw.eiT  .  ew-rw-ew-ew-ew-ew  -  «w.«w.«w.«w" 

And  there  the  two  of  them  pegged  away, 
and  lilted  and  whistled  away  like  a  pair  of 
thrushes;  and,  if  ye'd  believe  their  purtend- 

*  To  be  as  effective  as  intended,  parts  of  this  story 
must  be  acted  rather  than  read. 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal     13 

in',  ye  wouldn't  know  which  of  them  had  the 
lightest  heart.  And  whin  Molly,  the  cra- 
thur,  got  tired  of  "  The  Geese  in  the  Bog," 
she  started  on  "  Larry  O'Gaff,"  and  Thady, 
poor  man,  whistled  up  "  Go  to  the  divil  and 
shake  yerself "  with  a  vingince  that  was 
enough  to  loosen  any  woman's  tongue.  But 
Molly  was  good  grit,  and  she  only  spun 
harder  and  put  more  life  into  the  lilt.  And 
things  went  on  this  way  till  in  the  coorse  of 
a  little  time  a  pony  and  thrap  dhruv  up  till 
the  door  with  a  jintleman  and  his  sarvint  in 
it.  The  jintleman  was  makin'  the  best  of 
his  way  for  the  town  of  Dinnygal,  and  bein* 
a  stranger  in  them  parts,  and  not  knowin* 
the  right  road  when  he  came  to  the  cross, 
and  seein'  the  light  in  the  wee  cabin,  he  pulls 
up  his  pony,  and  says  he  to  his  sarvint,  says 
he,-  ' 

"  Go  intil  that  house  and  ax  them  if  they'd 
kindly  diract  ye  the  leadin'  road  to  Dinny- 
gal." 

So  the  sarvint  lifts  the  latch  of  the  door, 
and  ye'll  be  afther  believin'  he  opened  his 
eyes  purty  wide  when  he  seen  Molly  spinnin* 
and  liltin',  and  Thady  sewin'  and  whistlin* 


14       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

with  as  much  unconsarn  as  if  it  was  twelve 
o'clock  in  the  day  with  them. 

"  God  save  all  here,"  says  he.  "  Isn't  this 
the  purty  night  entirely?  " 

Molly  lifted  her  head  and  looked  at  him, 
and  then  went  on  with  her  spinnin'  and 
hummin/  and  Thady  lifted  his  head  and 
looked  at  him,  and  then  went  on  with  his 
sewin'  and  whistlin'  again,  but  naither  of 
them  said  dliirum  or  dliarum. 

The  sarvint  was  a  trifle  mismoved  at  this, 
but  he  walked  up  closer  to  Thady,  who  was 
now  whistlin'  "  The  girl  I  left  behind  me," 
and  he  says,  says  he, — 

"It's  benighted  we  are,  meself  and  the 
masther  without,  and  we'd  feel  obligated  to 
ye  if  ye'd  kindly  put  us  on  the  leadin'  road 
to  Dinnygal." 

Thady  wint  on  with  his  work  unconsarned, 
and  says, — 

^-  r  [ ,-  PJ-  J  j  |  J  j  j  j  |  j  j  fi  fcrhHl 

"  Phew-ew-ew-ew-ew-ew  -  ew  -  ew  •  cw-ew  -  ew-ew  -  evt-tw-ew-ew  -ev-ea" 

says  Thady,  says  he,  comin*  down  hard  on 
the  last  bar  or  so,  an* — without  ivir  movin' 
his  eyes  off  his  work — timin'  it  with  three 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal     15 

or  four  shakes  of  the  head  in  the  dirackshin 
of  Molly,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Ax  her,  and 
sEe'll  tell  ye." 

Then  the  sarvint  turned  to  Molly,  and 
says  he, — 

"  Prosper  the  work,  good  woman,  and 
could  ye  oblige  meself  and  the  man  without 
he  puttin'  us  on  the  leadin'  road  to  Dinny- 
gal?" 

Me  hrave  Molly  was  spinnin'  away  and 
hummin'  away  at  "  There's  nae  gude  luck 
about  the  house,"  and  she  wint  on  with  her 
work,  but  makes  answer, — 


"Him*  ira  •  im  •  1m  •  tiu  -  im  •  Ira  •  im  •  t'm  .  <nt .  fan .  <ra  •  iro  -  <ra  " 

says  Molly,  says  she,  hummin'  away,  an* 
without  liftin'  lier  eyes  off  her  work,  only — 
jist  like  Thady — comin'  down  hard  on  the 
last  bar  or  two,  and  timin'  it  with  three  or 
four  shakes  of  her  head  in  the  dirackshin  of 
Thady,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Jist  let  his  lord- 
ship himself  tell  ye." 

Faix,  at  this  the  poor  man  made  for  the 
door,  as  if  there  was  a  rajiment  at  his  heels, 
and  goin'  up  to  his  masther  says, — 


16       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  We'd  betther  be  takin'  the  first  road 
come  handiest  to  get  out  of  this,  for  it's  a 
branch  office  of  the  asylum  for  oncurable 
lunatics,  is  that  cabin  there." 

"  Get  out,  ye  omadhaun,"  says  the  jintle- 
man.  "  Did  ye  not  make  out  the  leadin' 
road  to  Dinnygal  ?  "  says  he. 

"  No,  I  made  out  the  leadin'  road  to  the 
door,"  says  the  sarvint,  "thanks  be  to  Pro- 
vidince  for  his  marcy;  and  it  was  the  speed 
of  me  heels  carried  me  out  of  it.  I  seen 
mad  men  and  mad  weemen,"  says  he,  "  in 
me  time,  but  the  lake  of  what's  goin'  on  in 
thondher  I  nivir  rested  me  eyes  on  afore  and 
trust  I  nivir  may  again." 

"  Confound  ye  for  a  numskull,"  says  the 
jintleman,  jumpin'  down  and  throwin'  the 
sarvint  the  reins.  "  Hould  them  things  till 
I  find  out  the  road." 

"  God  bliss  ye  and  send  ye  safe  back,"  says 
the  sarvint,  as  the  jintleman  wint  in  of  the 
door. 

The  jintleman  marched  up  to  Thady,  who 
was  sewin'  away  and  whistlin'  away  without 
ivir  liftin'  his  head,  and,  says  he, — 

"Could  ye  tell  me,  good  man,"  says  he, 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal     17 

"  or  give  me  the  dirackshins  of  the  leadin* 
road  to  Dinnygal  ?  " 

Thady  went  on  with  his  work,  and  re- 
plied, —  • 


Phe  w-«  w  .  *W4W  •  ew-e  w  .  «w  -  e  w  •  «  w  -  ew  - 


says  Thady,  says  he,  indycatin'  him  for  to 
ax  Molly  as  afore. 

Then  the  jintleman  wint  up  to  Molly,  who 
was  as  busy  at  her  work  as  what  Thady  was 
at  his. 

"  Prosper  the  work,  good  woman/'  says 
he,  "  and  could  ye  dirackt  me  on  the  leadin* 
road  to  Dinnygal?" 

Molly  nivir  lifted  her  head,  but  answers 
him, — 


"Ilim  .  im.tan-fan.fan  •  im.bn.im.to  -<•   -<m-  <m-to  -  <"»" 

says  Molly,  says  she,  sendin*  him  back  the 
same  way  to  Thady  for  information. 

And  there  he  was  in  the  quandharry. 

"  Ah,  be  this  and  be  that,"  says  he  to  him- 
self at  last,  "  Til  bait  the  biggest  button  on 


18       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

my  coat  that  I  make  ye  spake,  ye  ould  hay- 
thin',  ye,"  says  he  to  himself,  refarrin'  to 
Thady. 

So  with  that  he  thurns  to  Molly  again, 
and  says, — 

"Well,  in  throth,  me  good  woman,  ye 
mightn't  be  ashamed  to  open  that  purty 
little  mouth  o'  yours  to  reply  to  a  sthranger, 
for — though  it's  afore  yer  face  I  say  it — I'd 
thravel  far  afore  I'd  see  another  mouth  as 
coaxin',"  says  he. 


£*= 


"Him  .  im  -lin-  Ipi-im  «  lm-lm-lm.fcn.<m-<m.<m-<m-<m~ 

says  Molly,  says  she,  hack  to  him,  but  this 
time  she  did  look  up  from  her  work,  throwin' 
the  most  sootherin',  deludhrin',  coaxin',  sly 
look  at  him  sideways,  an'  noddin'  her  head 
to  him  on  the  last  notes,  mainin',  "  Throth, 
ye  spake  thrue  there,  good  man,  but  how  do 
ye  lake  me  now?  " 

"I  think,  good  man,"  says  he,  then, 
thurning  to  Thady — "I  think,  good  man," 
says  he,  "  ye  would  hardly  refuse  a  sthranger 
jist  the  laste  little  taste  of  a  kiss  from  that 
purty  little  wife  o'  yours,"  says  he. 


The  Leadin'  Road  to  Donegal     19 


lew-€w^w-ew^w-ew-ew-«w.ew.ew.ew.*w-a».n»-«»«»-«»-e»" 

says  Thady,  says  he,  gettin'  as  black  in  the 
countenance  as  a  thurf,  an*  shakin'  his  fist 
three  times  on  the  last  notes,  right  in  the 
sthranger's  face. 

"  Now,  what  do  ye  say  to  that  yerself,  me 
purty  little  woman? "  says  the  jintleman, 
thurnin'  to  Molly. 


J    |     J-    J     W-   J    I    rf-   «J     •    I 


'  Him  •  1m  -  Im-lm  -  to   -    la  •  tm-lra  •  <m   •    ta^iat  •  tm-in   •   in" 

says  Molly,  says  she,  givin'  him  another  of 
her  sootherin'  looks,  an'  waggin'  him  on  with 
three  wags  of  her  forefinger  an'  her  head, 
as  she  come  out  with  the  last  notes. 

"  Oh,  ye  natarnal  hussy,  ye,  I  knew  it  was 
in  ye,"  says  Thady,  jumpin'  off  the  boord 
in  a  thimdherin'  rage. 

"All  right,  Thady,"  says  Molly,  says  she, 
jumpin'  up  and  clappin'  her  hands  with  de- 
light. "  All  right,  Thady,"  says  she,  "  You 

MIND  THE  Pio!  " 


The  Boyne  Water 


The   Boyne  Water 

WILLIAM  SCOTT  and  Liz'anne  were  not  ac- 
counted exemplary  citizens  in  our  little  re- 
public of  Knockagar.  Very  far  from  it. 
Independent  of  the  civil  feuds  which  dis- 
turbed the  Scott  household,  they  were  hard- 
ened sinners  against  society  at  large  in  that 
they  never  visited  either  church  or  chapel — 
the  unpardonable  sin  with  us.  Though  the 
young  people,  the  waggish,  and  the  less  seri- 
ous-minded, enjoyed  William  and  Liz'anne, 
their  irreligious  conduct  continually  kept  all 
the  gray  pows  in  the  parish  shaking. 

William's  own  father  and  mother  had  been 
of  different  religious  persuasions,  and  they 
had  spent  their  life  squabbling  over  whether 
William  should  be  a  Catholic  or  a  Protestant, 
with  the  result  that,  though  William  earned 
his  father's  grudge  and  his  mother's  good- 
will by  lustily  professing  himself  "a  thrue 
Roman,"  he  practised  no  religion. 


24       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

It  might  well  have  been  thought  that,  with 
the  unhappy  results  of  a  mixed  marriage  so 
vividly  before  his  eyes,  William  would  steer 
clear  of  the  danger.  But,  as  Donal  a-Thoor- 
isk  said,  mixed  marriages,  like  wooden  legs, 
ran  in  the  blood.  William,  noisy  Catholic 
as  he  always  was,  began  early  to  show  a  par- 
tiality for  the  daughters  of  the  Heretic,  and, 
to  nobody's  surprise,  wound  up  by  a  run- 
away marriage  with  Liz'anne,  whose  own 
people  immediately  cut  her  off. 

But  all  things  considered,  William  made  a 
promising  start.  He  had  succeeded  in  in- 
ducing Liz'anne  to  submit  to  a  Roman  Cath- 
olic marriage.  At  this  there  were  many 
optimists  among  us,  willing  to  suspend  judg- 
ment till  we'd  see  further.  But  again  many 
others  would  not  take  a  roseate  view  of  mat- 
ters. They  prophetically  said,  "  You'll  see 
what  you'll  see! "  then  closed  their  mouths 
hard,  and  shook  their  heads.  And,  I  regret 
to  say,  events  justified  this  prophecy. 

For  six  months  William  and  Liz'anne  got 
on  agreeably  as  well  as  comfortably.  Wil- 
liam was  a  weaver,  and  famed  for  good 
workmanship.  And  Liz'anne  was  as  good, 


The  Boyne  Water  25 

as  tidy,  and  as  clean  a  housekeeper  as  any 
of  the  most  religious  women  at  the  Bocht. 
When  she  had  her  house  trigged  up  for  the 
day,  and  she  had  sat  down  in  the  front  win- 
dow to  her  sprigging,  while  "William  worked 
the  loom  close  by  the  back  window,  and  two 
spotlessly  white  cats — for  Liz'anne  was  fond 
of  cats  and  always  kept  two  big  ones — sitting 
on  their  haunches  on  either  side  of  the  swept 
hearth  dreamily  dropped  their  eyelids,  and 
purred  at  each  other  across  the  fire,  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  go  into  William's  and  have  a 
chair,  and  be  soothed  with  the  comfort 
that  filled  the  cabin.  For  six  months,  Wil- 
liam and  Liz'anne  kept  their  religious  opin- 
ions under  due  restraint,  and  their  happy 
content  was  uninterrupted.  There  was  no 
danger  of  dispute  about  going  to  church  or 
chapel,  for  neither  of  the  pair  had  any  de- 
cided penchant  for  visiting  either. 

Now  William  was  not  a  drinking  man  in 
the  usual  acceptation  of  the  term;  he  had  no 
craving  for  drink,  but  he  seemed  to  feel  that 
he  owed  himself  and  society  the  duty  of  get- 
ting gloriously  drunk  two  or  three  times  a 
year.  And  when  William  got  drunk,  his 


26       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

religious  enthusiasm  came  uppermost,  all  the 
religious  sentiment  that  had  accumulated  in 
his  soul  since  he  was  previously  on  the  spree 
suddenly  began  to  boil,  and  William,  quite 
indifferent  to  the  religious  susceptibilities  of 
neighbours  of  a  different  way  of  thinking, 
threw  open  the  safety-valve,  when  any  who 
didn't  choose  to  get  out  of  the  way  were  wel- 
come to  their  scalding.  William  was  now 
rampantly  and  aggressively  Catholic,  eager 
to  let  his  blood  colour  the  sod  in  the  cause 
of  his  beloved  Faith.  His  antithesis  was 
Orange  Watty — a  weaver  likewise — who 
lived  under  Dhrimanerry  hill,  not  far  dis- 
tant. And  hither,  when  the  religious  out- 
burst seized  him,  was  William  wont  to  betake 
himself,  creating  a  hostile  demonstration  in 
front  of  poor  Watty  Farrell's:  "Whoop! 
Hurroo!  To  ***  with  King  William,  an' 
God  bliss  the  Pope! " 

Watty  Farrell  was  spare  and  small  of 
frame;  he  had  a  short  temper,  and  was  an 
ardent,  fiery  Orangeman,  who  gloried  in 
being  standard-bearer  on  "  the  Great 
Twelfth,"  and  defiantly  flaunted  the  flag  in 
the  face  of  the  exasperated  enemy — al- 


The  Boyne  Water  27 

though,  "the  Twelfth"  being  past  and  no 
other  burning  religious  feeling  being  in  the 
air,  his  Catholic  neighbours  had  not  a  more 
cordial  or  a  more  esteemed  friend  than 
Orange  "Watty.  Let  Watty,  though,  be  in 
what  frame  of  mind  he  might,  the  instant 
he  heard  William  Scott's  defiant  voice  raised 
without,  blaspheming  his  idol,  and  invoking 
a  blessing  on  Anti-Christ,  he  bounded  from 
his  loom,  all  the  Orange  valour  within  him 
surging  through  his  blood,  and  insignificant 
as  he  was  in  size,  it  always  gave  his  big  burly 
sister,  Bella,  enough  ado  to  hold  in  her  clasp 
his  squirming  form,  until  by  some  means  or 
other  she  had  got  the  door  barred  and  bolted, 
and  the  danger  of  little  Watty  going  out  to 
commit  homicide  thus  considerably  lessened. 
And  when  William,  waxing  yet  more  inso- 
lent, sang  loudly, 

Wor  ye  iver  in  Glenties  fair  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Wor  ye  iver  in  Glenties  fair  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Wor  ye  iver  in  Glenties  fair, 
Where  (HuRROo!)  they  clip  the  Orange  mare, 
And  make  stockin's  of  her  hair  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht, 


28       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

Watty,  like  a  caged  tiger,  screamed  and 
raged  within — and  felt  anything  but  soothed 
when  William  added  him  of  a  good  stomach- 
ful  of  personal  abuse,  ere  he  left. 

About  six  months  after  his  marriage  with 
Liz'anne,  William  let  himself  out  on  one  of 
these  royal  sprees,  and  went  through  his 
usual  programme,  including  the  customary 
visit  to  Watty's  and  outpouring  of  bile  there- 
at. But,  as  the  fates  would  have  it,  big  Bella 
being  from  home,  and  so  no  restraint  upon 
Watty,  the  little  fellow  had  come  out,  and — 
for  William  was  too  drunk  for  defence — 
"  hammered  the  papish  sowl-case  out  of 
him " — so  Watty  eloquently  described  it, 
after — and  chased  him  for  his  life! 

When  William  came  home  after  his  igno- 
minious defeat  at  the  hands  of  such  a  miser- 
able little  droich  as  Orange  Watty,  he  was 
not  in  the  sweetest  temper — and  the  animus 
he  bore  King  William  was  much  intensified. 
He  tried  to  steady  himself  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  and  to  look  the  haughty 
papist  to  perfection.  He  fixed  his  gaze  on 
Liz'anne,  who,  in  the  window-seat,  sprigged 
away  industriously — "  To  (hie)  ***  with 


The  Boyne  Water  29 

him,  I  say!  To  (hie)  ***  with  him!  To 
(hie— hie)  ***  with  King  Bi(hic)-Bil-hil- 
ly! "  That  was  too  much  for  Liz'anne's 
militant  Protestantism  to  tolerate.  She  got 
up  instantly,  and  to  the  utter  consternation 
of  the  already  well-abused  William,  seized  a 
creepy-stool  and  whacked  him  out  of  his  own 
house.  "  ISTow,  to  ***  with  yerself,  an'  the 
Pope,  an'  with  every  dhirty  papish  from 
Connaught  to  Guinealand!  an'  a  necklace  o' 
red-hot  mill-stones  roun'  yer  necks  to  keep 
yez  there  when  yez  are  down!"  and  the  justly 
inHignant  Liz'anne,  casting  a  last  contempt- 
uous look  at  her  poor  amazed  husband 
where  he  sat  on  the  street  vaguely  feeling  for 
his  sores,  slammed  out,  and  bolted,  the  door. 
And  when  at  length  William  felt  collected 
enough  to  gather  himself  together,  he  stood 
a  good  while  gazing  at  the  inhospitable  door, 
which  coldly  stared  him  back;  then  he  shook 
his  head  with  grievous  meaning,  and  turning 
away  felt  it  very  hard  that,  owning  a  house, 
and  a  comfortable  one,  he  was  compelled  to 
go  and  petition  the  Bummadier  (the  village 
pensioner)  for  the  favour  of  a  night's 
lodging. 


30       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

It  took  ten  days  probably  for  William  and 
Liz'anne  to  consent  to  forget  this,  their  first 
little  disagreement.  But  it  remembered 
them  that  they  had  each  a  faith  to  defend, 
and  henceforward  they  were  slow  to  let  pass 
without  doing  their  duty  any  opportunity 
offered.  Of  course  I  do  not  mean  that  they 
attended  to  the  outward  observances  their 
religions  required  of  them — they  were  not 
guilty  of  going  to  church  and  chapel,  nor 
did  they  commit  themselves  to  prayer,  any 
more  than  formerly,  but  they  were  hence- 
forth staunch  advocates  of  their  respective 
faiths,  and  waxed  great  in  polemics. 

"  Well,  for  the  life  o'  me,"  on  a  day  when 
polemics  raged,  William  would  say  from  his 
seat  at  the  loom,  "I  can't  tell  for  what  did 
they  curse  me  with  the  name  they  did!  Wil- 
liam! Och,  to  ***  with  it!  Hard  feedin* 
to  them,  an*  my  left-handed  blissin'  be  on 
them  done  it! " 

"  Ha!  ha! "  Liz'anne  would  sarcastically 
laugh,  throwing  back  her  head.  "  No  more 
do  I  know  why  they  give  such  a  name  to 
the  lakes  (like)  o'  ye.  Hard  feedin'  to  them, 
say  I,  an'  conshumin'  to  them!  an'  my  left- 


The  Boyne  Water  31 

handed  blissin'  be  on  them  lakewise!  "  Liz'- 
anne  was  very  bitter,  and  in  debate  had  that 
sort  of  a  triumphant  crow  with  her,  which 
exasperates. 

"It's  a  name  for  a  jackass,"  William  would 
angrily  retort. 

"If  that's  so,  they  fitted  ye  well.  But  I 
say  it's  Pathrick  you  should  have  been  called 
— that's  the  proper  name  for  a  jackass." 

"  HouF  yer  tongue,  ye  barge  ye! "  and 
William  would  stamp  his  foot.  "  Ye  varago 
ye,  houl'  yer  tongue! — If  ye  can,"  he  would 
add,  tauntingly. 

"  Yis,  Pathrick  it  should  'a'  been,"  and 
Liz'anne  would  calmly  move  about  her  work, 
"  for  any  jackass  called  other  than  Pathrick 
is  miscalled." 

"  Sent  Pathrick  was  a  jintleman,  ye  targer 
ye!  What  you,  or  wan  belongin'  to  ye,  nivir 
was,  nor  niver  'ill  be.  Don't  dar*  for  to  even 
a  word  again'  Sent  Pathrick! " 

"  Make  yer  min'  aisy — I  wouldn't  soil  me 
spoon  on  him  if  I  met  him  in  the  stirabout 
pot." 

"  Ha-ha-ha!  Yez  haven't  got  the  lakes  of 
him  any  how  among  yer  baratics." 


32       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  Ha!  ha!  In  throth  an'  if  I  thought  they 
suffered  the  lakes  of  him  among  them,  I'd 
turn  Turk  the  morra." 

"Ho,  ye  natarnal  vag  ye!  Ye  would, 
would  ye?  Faith  an'  the  Thurks,  if  they 
knew  ye  as  well  as  I  do,  would  prefer  yer 
room  to  yer  company.  An'  didn't  I  tell  ye 
hundhreds  o'  times  not  for  to  go  for  to  abuse 
Sent  Pathrick— don't  do  it!  " 

"Then  don't  you  be  throwin*  the  dhirty 
spalpeen  in  my  face." 

"Oh  Lord!  Oh  Lord!"  poor  William 
would  exclaim  in  agony. 

"  The  dhirty  spalpeen,  indeed! "  Liz'anne 
would  repeat,  seeing  the  sore  spot. 

"Ye  will  dhrive  me  mad,  woman!  Oh, 
Lord! " 

"  Hagh!  ye've  put  that  out  o'  me  power — 
for  it's  long  since  ye  went  mad.  I  niver  met 
that  papish  yet  hadn't  the  mad  touch  in  him. 
What  did  they  disgrace  the  good  an'  holy 
name  of  King  William  puttin'  it  on  you  for, 
anyhow?  " 

"  It's  me  was  disgraced  by  gettin'  it." 

"  Get  out,  ye  papish  beggar!  Don't  say 
it!" 


The  Boyne  Water  33 

"Hagh!  ye  Orange  tar-maj-ent  ye,  I'm 
disgraced." 

"  Ha!  ha!  disgraced!  The  divil  himself 
couldn't  disgrace  you — no  more  nor  soot 
might  disgrace  a  chimbley-sweep." 

"  Ma'am,  ye're  goin'  too  far.  Ye'd  temp' 
the  Pope." 

"The  Pope,  moryali!  To  the  divil  with 
you  an'  the  Pope.  The  Pope!  Och,  short 
daith  to  Mm!  If  I  owned  a  pig  I  had  any 
respect  for  I  wouldn't  let  him  carry  ~broc  (re- 
fuse) to  it." 

"  Oh  Lord!  Lord!  Will  ye  let  the  Holy 
Pope  alone  atself  that's  not  intherfairin' 
with  ye! " 

"  An'  didn't  I  tell  ye  afore  to  keep  yer  ill 
company  to  yerself?  If  ye  don't  want  him 
abused  don't  go  for  to  he  throwin'  the  vaga- 
bone  in  my  face." 

"Vagabone!  The  Holy  Pope  o'  Rome! 
Marcy  look  down  on  us!  Are  ye  not  afeerd, 
woman?  Are  ye  not  thrimblin'?  " 

"  Och  then  the  divil  a  thrimble's  ailin' 
me,  I  thank  you." 

"Vagabone!  Vagabone!  I'll  tell  ye  what 
it  is,  me  good  woman,  if,  be  hook  or  be 
3 


34       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

crook,  them  words  o'  yours  reached  him, 
there'd  be  an  ass's  head  on  ye  in  five  minutes 
time! " 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  An  ass's  head,  indeed! 
An'  throth  I'm  afeerd  there's  too  few  of  his 
own  sort  could  spare  the  wan  he'd  give  me. 
An  ass's  head!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  " 

Poor  William  wasn't  nimble-witted 
enough  for  the  sarcastic  Liz'anne.  He 
never  entered  into  argument  with  her  that 
he,  somehow  or  other,  didn't  come  out  sec- 
ond best,  for  she  could,  metaphorically,  twist 
him  around  her  finger,  and  cast  him  over  her 
shoulder  with  an  ease  that  was  gall  to  Wil- 
liam's soul.  To  William's  credit,  be  it  said, 
no  matter  how  much  she  enraged  him,  he 
never  dreamt  of  physical  force  as  a  good 
argumentative  agent. 

Of  course  these  theological  disputes  were 
not  perpetual.  Very  fax  from  that.  A  day 
or  two  of  each  month  might  be  set  apart  for 
them;  during  the  remainder  of  the  month, 
Liz'anne  was  a  dutiful  wife  and  William  a 
loving  husband,  and  to  all  appearance,  whilst 
they  consented  to  forget  their  religions  both 
enjoyed  more  happiness  and  content  than 


The  Boyne  Water  35 

could  easily  be  expected  of  such  unregener- 
ate  ones. 

When  a  young  generation  of  Scotts  were 
growing  up,  additional  causes  of  disagree- 
ment entered  into  the  lives  of  William  and 
Liz'anne.  There  might,  indeed,  have  arisen 
serious  difference  of  opinion  over  the  bap- 
tising of  the  children  only  that  William, 
who,  when  he  saw  a  material  advantage  could 
be  thereby  gained,  was  possessed  of  a  share 
of  policy,  and  taking  the  easy  way  of  Liz'- 
anne— the  only  way  in  which  she  could  be 
thwarted — had  them  christened  as  he  de- 
sired. True,  on  the  occasion  of  her  first,  the 
Bocca  Fadh*  (with  William's  connivance) 
gave  it  a  hurried  private  baptism — intending 
thus  to  have  the  foreway  of  Liz'anne  if  with 
returning  strength  of  body  should  come 
stubbornness  of  mind.  But  the  moment  he 
had  finished  the  snatch-ceremony  in  Wil- 
liam's kitchen,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say 
whether  his  pain  or  his  amazement  was  the 
greater  at  the  stout  blow  that  took  him  over 
the  head,  and  set  a  squadron  of  stars  doing 
intricate  evolutions  before  his  eyes,  for  Liz'- 

*  Long  Beggarman. 


36       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

anne,  in  her  bed  in  the  room,  suspected 
something,  and  arriving  on  the  scene  robed 
in  a  manner  not  quite  appropriate  to  the 
kitchen,  and  for  which  the  exigency  of  the 
occasion  was  her  excuse,  had  seized  hold  of 
Shan  a-Phiopa's  (who  had  come  to  the  chris- 
tening) stick,  laid  on  the  Bocca  Fadh  with 
a  precision  and  effectiveness  of  stroke  very 
creditable  indeed  for  a  woman  whom  the 
conventionalities  of  society  require  to  be 
hovering  between  death  and  life.  Anyhow, 
on  this  occasion  there  was  more  of  life  than 
death  dealing  with  Mistress  Scott's  arm  and 
tongue,  for  she  very  quickly  cleared  the 
Bocca  Fadh  out  of  the  house,  loaded  with  a 
sore  load  of  both  physical  and  moral  abuse — 
and  the  other  trembling  revellers  who  had 
assembled  to  enjoy  the  christening  had  grat- 
itude in  their  hearts  when  she  let  them  es- 
cape with  a  tongue-thrashing.  The  Bocca 
Fadh  paraded  his  wounds  around  the  parish, 
and  made  much  capital  from  a  humble  com- 
parison of  himself  with  those  good  and  re- 
nowned men  of  the  early  church  who  were 
martyred  in  the  same  cause  in  which  he  had 
so  sorely  suffered. 


The  Boyne  Water  37 

But  a  time  came,  and  the  neighbours  told 
William  it  was  a  shame  that  he  wasn't  send- 
ing the  children  out  to  chapel;  and  it  forced 
itself  on  William  that  it  was  part  of  his  duty, 
as  a  good  Catholic,  to  do  so.  He  wove  for 
them  some  of  his  best  tweeds,  and  John 
Burns  carefully  took  the  measure  of  the  eld- 
est, and,  making  necessary  allowances  for 
variation  in  size,  cut  out  the  making  of  nice 
suits  for  all  of  them  after  this  standard. 
Liz'anne  found  what  was  going  on;  she  did- 
n't say  much,  but  began  making  little  neces- 
saries for  them,  also,  resolved  they  should  go 
to  church.  As  the  day  of  the  children's 
debut  approached  relations  became  strained, 
the  tension  gradually  increased,  and,  on  the 
eventful  morning  both  William  and  Liz'anne 
joined  in  dressing  the  children,  vieing  which 
should  do  most,  and  heartily  abusing  each 
other's  religion  all  the  time.  But,  alas!  Wil- 
liam was  faultlessly  dressed  himself  and 
sporting  his  Sunday  shoes  on  which  Liz'anne 
had,  the  night  before,  bestowed  a  magnifi- 
cent polish — and  so  prepared  to  go  with  the 
children.  Here  he  had  poor  Liz'anne,  whose 
wardrobe — neat  and  clean  and  plentiful 


38       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

enough  for  housewear — boasted  no  holiday 
garments.  Eventually,  when  she  had  with 
infinite  pains  fitted  the  children  up  in  their 
neatest,  and  saw  that  William  stood  by  the 
door  waiting  to  guard  the  flock  into  the 
proper  fold,  she  lost  at  once  her  resolve  and 
her  temper;  she  huddled  the  children  out  of 
the  door,  pitched  poor  William  out  on  top  of 
them,  "  Here,  an'  away  to  ***  now,  you  an' 
them!  "  she  said,  and  slammed  the  door. 

But,  of  their  five  children,  Liz'anne  won 
to  her  church  the  allegiance  of  four.  The 
fifth  and  eldest  hoisted  William's  colours, 
and  was  very  proud  to  proclaim  himself  "a 
jiggered  papish."  Keligious  disagreements 
were  now  no  less  rife.  But  William  had 
long  since  tired  of  the  monotony  of  being 
beaten,  and  had  given  up  trying  on  such  oc- 
casions to  return  Liz'anne  word  for  word, 
and  he  schooled  the  son  who  had  shown  him- 
self worthy  of  him,  to  express  his  feelings 
rather  by  looks  than  words — though  he  him- 
self still  employed  words.  When,  occasion- 
ally, a  religious  difference  would  now  arise, 
William  without  any  delay  laid  down  what 
he  styled  the  Boyne  Wather,  a  shaft  of  alder- 


The  Boyne  Water  39 

wood  about  twenty  feet  long,  which  from  the 
hearth  passed  down  the  centre  of  the  floor, 
dividing  the  house  equally.  "When  the 
Boyne  Wather  was  laid  down  it  was  a  mutu- 
ally understood  and  respected  rule  that  Liz'- 
anne  and  her  following  were  to  keep  to  the 
front  half  of  the  kitchen,  while  "William  and 
his  small  but  staunch  support  kept  the  other 
half.  Insulting  words  and  looks  flung  across 
the  Boyne  Wather  were  of  course  quite  with- 
in the  rules  of  war,  but  on  none  but  the  most 
urgent  account  could  either  party  trespass  on 
hostile  territory — whereby  this  Boyne  Wather 
surpassed  its  original.  The  waggish  ones  of 
the  Bocht,  who  took  a  sinful  delight  in  the 
religious  controversies  which  troubled  the 
lives  of  William  and  Liz'anne,  were  fond  of 
quizzing  the  former  when  they  got  him  at 
wake  or  other  gathering  where  fun  was  the 
order. 

"Well,  William,  is  the  Boyne  Wather 
down  or  up,  this  weather?"  and  the  inter- 
rogator, with  a  twinkling  eye,  appealed  to 
the  humour  of  the  house. 

"  Och  it's  down,  down,"  with  a  mournful 
shake  of  the  head.  "  I  had  to  fetch  it  from 


4-O       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

behind  the  house"  (the  customary  resting 
place  of  the  Boyne  Wather  when  peace 
reigned)  "yistherday  evenin',  an*  glory  be 
to  Goodness! "  with  a  sigh,  "  it's  down  yet, 
an'  small  signs  of  thon  woman  lettin'  me 
take  it  up." 

When  William  had  got  the  Boyne  Water 
safely  laid,  and  got  to  his  loom  again  amid 
a  hail  of  abuse  from  Liz'anne,  he  wrought 
harder  than  was  his  wont,  and  he  made  the 
shuttle  fly  to  an  unending  accompaniment 
of  "  No  wondher!  No  wondher!  No  won- 
dher!  No  wondher! "  his  sole,  and  very  ex- 
asperating reply,  now,  to  Liz'anne's  abusive 
arguments.  As  long  as  Liz'anne  continued 
bestowing  hurtful  epithets  on  William  and 
William's  church,  so  long  would  William,  in 
a  doleful  voice,  continue  the  Jeremiad — "No 
wondher!  No  wondher!  No  wondher! " 
thus  stinging  Liz'anne  into  protracting  her 
unedifying  discourse,  which,  by  reaction, 
lengthened  in  turn  William's  mournful 
chant.  And  let  happen  what  domestic 
events  might,  or  let  who  would  come  in  or 
go  out,  whilst  the  Boyne  Wather  was  down, 
and  the  fit  on  William,  he  went  on  with  his 


The  Boyne  Water  41 

loom  and  his  plaint,  the  shuttle  swinging  to 
and  fro,  his  head  nodding  to  it  in  a  mourn- 
ful manner,  and  he  proclaiming  "  No  wond- 
her!  No  wondher!  No  wondher!  No  wond- 
her!  No  wondher! " 

On  a  Twelfth  of  July  William's  second 
son,  who  had  been  honouring  the  occasion 
not  wisely  but  too  well,  came  swaggering  up 
through  the  Bocht,  eliciting  from  the  echoes 
lusty  cheers  for  the  pious,  glorious,  and  im- 
mortal King  William,  and  right  heartily  and 
boisterously  abusing  all  the  enemies  of  the 
said  William  and  of  his  church.  The  Wil- 
liam who  had  fallen  away  from  the  traditions 
of  his  name,  to  wit,  the  enthusiast's  own 
father,  heard  him  with  deep  mortification, 
and  slunk  in  a  convenient  door  till  the  son 
who  shamed  him  had  passed.  He  felt  called 
upon  to  apologize  for  the  conduct  of  his  un- 
worthy offspring;  he  shook  his  head  deject- 
edly— "  I  don't  know  how  that  is,"  poor  Wil- 
liam said,  "  for  that  boy  comes  of  wan  of  the 
d d  best  Catholic  stocks  in  Dinnygal! " 

The  children  of  William  and  Liz'anne  dis- 
appointed us  all — pleasingly  disappointed  us 
— by  the  good  turn-out  they  made,  for  we 


42       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

had  ever  had  our  forebodings  about  their 
future.  They  went  to  America  one  by  one, 
prospered,  and  never  forgot  the  old  couple. 

When  the  children  had  disappeared  the 
Boyne  Wather  began  to  be  requisitioned  less 
often.  Very  probably  it  had  got  to  be  laid 
down  on  Patrick's  Day  and  the  Twelfth  of 
July — but  William  and  Liz'anne  would  be 
more  than  human  if  this  wasn't  so.  During 
the  remainder  of  the  year  it  lay  behind  the 
house  in  merited  neglect.  It  was  not  that 
either  had  got  any  less  zealous  in  their  re- 
ligion. William  remained,  what  always  he 
had  been,  one  of  the  staunchest  Catholics 
that  never  attended  chapel — and  Liz'anne, 
in  like  manner,  and  to  the  like  extent  ten- 
dered unabated  loyalty  to  her  church.  But 
old  Time  had  softened  the  asperities  of  both 
tongue  and  temper,  and  strengthened  that 
regard  for  each  other,  which,  despite  their 
disputes,  William  and  Liz'anne  had  ever 
maintained.  For  years  it  had  been  a  stand- 
ing joke  for  the  countryside,  how,  Watty 
Farrell  having  once  happened  into  William's 
when  the  Boyne  Wather  was  down  and  the 
wordy  artillery  in  full  play  across  it,  and 


The  Boyne  Water  43 

having  had  the  temerity  to  join  Liz'anne  in 
her  abuse  of  William,  Saint  Patrick,  and  the 
Pope,  Liz'anne  had  without  more  ado  emp- 
tied a  bucket  of  water  over  the  audacious 
little  weaver,  and  then  emptied  him,  drip- 
ping, out  of  the  house. 

And  when  William  got  "the  sthroke"* 
and  every  one  thought  him  dying,  Liz'anne, 
despite  the  bitter,  sleety,  awful  night  it  was, 
dashed  out,  unshawled  and  unhooded,  and 
off  to  Father  Dan's  at  the  top  of  her  speed, 
and,  not  finding  Father  Dan  at  home,  ran 
again,  breathless,  four  sore  Irish  miles  to 
Corameenlusky  where  he  was  attending 
Hughy  Shan's  old  mother,  and  carried  him 
off  with  her,  to  give  to  William  the  consola- 
tions of  his  religion.  And  William  received 
these  as  hopefully  as  many  a  more  regular 
Catholic. 

William  lingered  for  several  weeks,  and 
Liz'anne's  concern  and  attentions  were 
touching.  For  all  of  that  morning  upon 
which  he  died,  William  kept  repeating  one 
word — "  Liz'anne,  Liz'anne,  Liz'anne,  Liz'- 
anne," as  unceasingly  and  persistently  as  he 

*  Paralysis. 


44       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

had  ever  chanted  "No  wondher!  No  worl- 
dlier! No  wondher!  "  over  his  loom.  It  was 
the  ravin'  of  death,  they  said,  was  on  him. 
Despite  the  heart-whole  prayers  of  the  good 
old  women  of  the  Bocht,  assembled  in  his 
room  beseeching  God  to  give  him  a  happy 
and  sudden  release,  William's  dying  moments 
were  protracted.  It  was  at  length  agreed 
that  the  presence  of  a  heretic  was  the  cause. 
The  weeping  Liz'anne,  poor  woman,  agree- 
ing with  this  opinion,  quitted  it,  and,  accord- 
ing to  expectation,  William  soon  closed  his 
eyes  in  peace. 

The  Boyne  Wather  was  laid  down,  for  the 
last  time,  at  William's  wake — but  this  time 
across  the  hearth,  making  several  very  warm 
and  cheery  fires  for  the  comfort  of  the  wak- 
ers.  They  all  knew  its  history,  yet  the  boys 
who  had  so  often  made  merry  about  it,  joked 
not  on  the  occasion. 


The  Quad-dhroop-eds 


The  Quad-dhroop-eds 

A  TRUE  TALE  OF  THE  CRUCKAGAR  DEATH 
OR  GLORY  DEVOTED  SONS  OF  WILLIAM 
L.O.L.  19,019. 

THE  Cruckagar  Death  or  Glory  Devoted 
Sons  of  William  L.O.L.,  19,019,  had  long 
been  a  shining  light  amongst  the  Loyal 
Orange  Lodges  of  the  North.  The  burning 
eloquence  of  the  rhetoric  that  from  it  flowed 
and  the  dazzling  brilliancy  of  the  brave  and 
dauntless  deeds  the  Death  or  Glory  Boys 
threatened  to  perform  if  only  opportunity 
offered,  marked  them  and  their  lodge  as  the 
worthiest  inheritors  to  whom  had  descended 
the  glorious  traditions  of  stubborn  fights  and 
bloody  fields,  the  heritage  of  Aughrim  and 
the  Boyne. 

The  Cruckagar  Death  or  Glory  Devoted 
Sons  of  William  L.O.L.,  19,019,  had  been, 
we  said,  the  shining  light  amongst  its  sister 


48       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

lodges.  But  alas  and  alas,  that  we  have  to 
relate  it!  that  light  which  shone  so  long,  so 
brightly,  and  so  steadily,  the  Pole  Star  of  all 
who  worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  Civil  and 
Eeligious  Freedom  and  Equality,  and  de- 
tested Pope  and  Popery,  Base  Bigotry,  Brass 
Money  and  Wooden  Shoes — alas  and  alas! 
that  light  was,  to  the  extreme  concern  of  all 
true,  peaceful,  and  law-abiding  subjects — 
subjects  whose  excess  of  loyalty  and  burning 
love  of  law  and  order  prompted  them  to  kick 
even  her  Most  Gracious  Majesty's  Crown 
into  the  Boyne  if  she  obeyed  not  their  man- 
dates— that  light,  again  we  repeat,  was 
eventually  dimmed  and  finally  obscured  for- 
ever. 

And  in  this  way  the  lamentable  catas- 
trophe came  about. 

One  of  the  fundamental  rules  of  the 
Cruckagar  Death  or  Glory  Devoted  Sons  of 
William  L.O.L.,  19,019,  was  that  the  toast 
of  "  The  glorious  pious  and  immortal  mem- 
ory "  of  William  who  freed  us  from  the  neck- 
collar  of  Rome  and  the  wooden  shoes  and 
other  impositions  of  France,  might  be 
pledged  as  frequently  as  the  members  chose 


The  Quad-dhroop-eds  49 

during  the  first  half-dozen  toasts,  but  for  a 
very  good  reason,  gathered  from  experience, 
was  not  to  he  attempted  after  the  sixth 
round.  This  wise  ordinance  was  strictly  and 
piously  observed  till  the  cloak  of  Worshipful 
Grand  Master  fell  upon  the  shoulders  of 
Billy  M'Carter,  one  of  the  most  militant 
members  of  a  most  militant  lodge,  and  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  most  sincerely  devoted  chil- 
dren that  ever  worshipped  the  memory  of  his 
illustrious  namesake  of  the  Boyne.  Billy's 
unmasterable,  unrestrainable  enthusiasm 
prompted  him  to  toast  his  regal  namesake's 
memory  first  of  the  toasts,  and  second  of  the 
toasts,  and  then  third  of  them,  fourth  of 
them,  fifth  of  them,  sixth  of  them,  and 
seventh  of  them;  the  eighth  toast  was  to 
the  memory  of  William,  as  were  likewise  the 
ninth  and  tenth.  The  intelligent  reader  has, 
of  course,  foreseen  the  result,  and  the  reason 
why  the  children  of  William,  as  children  of 
many  other  parents,  disputed,  disagreed,  sep- 
arated, and  the  lustre  of  family  records  was 
dimmed.  Yes,  about,  or  after,  the  sixth 
toast,  Mister  M'Carter's  voice  lost  its  dis- 
tinctness of  utterance,  with  the  alarming  re- 
4 


50       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

suit  that  henceforward  he  was  toasting  "  The 
glorious  pies  (hie),  and  immor'al  mem'ry  "  of 
King  William!  And  finding  the  martial- 
spirited  Billy  unamenable  to  reason,  Murray 
M'Clure  led  the  revolt.  The  adhesion  to  his 
side  of  the  Eev.  Simon  M'Whan,  too,  inten- 
sified matters,  and  swelled  the  numbers  of 
the  rebels.  The  more  ardent  spirits  among 
them  stood  fast  and  firm  by  their  Worship- 
ful Grand  Master  and  the  lodge.  The  ex- 
citement was  great.  Informal  meetings  of 
both  parties  took  place  nightly,  the  Eev. 
Simon  M'Whan  harbouring  the  insurgents. 
Active  hostilities  were  quickly  instituted, 
and  the  great  guns  of  both  parties  were 
wrought  to  bursting,  hurling  deadly  dis- 
charges of  rhetoric  across  the  way  at  the  en- 
campment of  the  enemy,  and  evoking  as 
thundering,  as  death-dealing,  volleys  in  re- 
turn. Both  sides  had  submitted  their  case 
to  the  higher  authorities  with  the  least  pos- 
sible delay,  each  claiming  for  itself  to  be  the 
True  Devoted  Sons  of  William.  The  higher 
authorities  found  themselves  unable  to  de- 
cide the  delicate  and  complicated  question, 
and  referred  it  back  to  the  claimants  for  mu- 


The  Quad-dhroop-eds  51 

tual  settlement.  But  the  breach  was  now  too 
wide,  and  their  respective  principles  had,  ere 
this,  burned  themselves  into  the  breasts  of 
either  party.  Billy  hurled  Anathema  at 
Murray  and  Simon.  Murray  and  Simon, 
hurled  deepest  and  direst  Anathema  at  Billy. 
And  lo,  the  excitement  in  Cruckagar  got 
a  new  impetus!  On  a  morning  Billy  M'Car- 
ter  astonished  Cruckagar  by  producing  a 
sympathetic  letter  from  no  less  famous, 
no  less  renowned  a  brother  of  the  most  zeal- 
ous and  prominent  brethren  of  the  North, 
than  the  great  William  Aughrim  Koarin'- 
Meg  Walker,  Governor  of  the  Apprentice 
Boys,  Worshipful  Grand  Master  of  the  Lon- 
donderry Glorious  Memories  of  Bloody 
Fields  L.O.L.,  99,942,  stating  his  opinion 
that  Mister  M'Cart-er  was  a  worthy  sufferer 
in  the  good  cause,  that  he  and  his  faithful 
followers  were  undoubtedly  the  True  and  the 
only  True,  Sons  of  William;  that  they  re- 
flected honour  upon  their  Order,  glory  upon 
the  Cause,  and  renown  upon  Ireland,  and 
that  furthermore,  he,  William  Aughrim 
Eoarin'-Meg  Walker,  Governor  of  the  Ap- 
prentice Boys,  and  Worshipful  Grand  Master 


52       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

of  the  Londonderry  Glorious  Memories  of 
Bloody  Fields  L.O.L.,  99,942,  should  take 
an  early  opportunity  of  going  down  to 
Cruckagar  to  strengthen  the  hands  of  Mister 
M'Carter,  and  make  his  unworthy  enemies 
humble  them  in  the  dust  before  him! 

There  was  joy  in  Israel!     In  Gath  was 
wailing  and  weeping  and  gnashing  of  teeth! 


II. 


Paddy  Monaghan's  "  Bush  "  was  richly  de- 
serving of  its  intended  title  of  Omnibus.  Its 
uses  were,  indeed,  varied  and  manifold. 
There  was  a  happy  appropriateness  in  Mas- 
ther  Whorisky's  expressed  opinion  that 
Paddy's  Bush  was  "a  versatile  arrange- 
ment." The  Bush  had  been  superannuated 
at  the  Major's,  when  Paddy  got  it  for  the 
taking  away.  Then  in  the  summer  time 
Paddy  had  it  brushed  up  and  ornamented, 
when  it  answered  alike  to  drive  a  child  to  be 
christened,  or  a  pair  to  be  married,  or — an 
"  impromptu  hearse  "  the  Masther  put  it — a 
corpse  to  the  grave.  One  day  it  drove  out  a 
party  of  merry  pleasure  seekers,  next  day 
a  group  of  wailing  mourners.  On  Sunday  it 
drove  the  Major  to  church,  and  on  Monday 
it  took  "  a  crathur  in  the  faiver  (God  save  us 
all!) "  to  the  hospital;  on  Tuesday  it  took 
the  sheriff  to  the  courthouse,  and  on  Wed- 


54       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

nesday  it  took  poteen  to  Donegal;  on  Thurs- 
day the  magistrate  sat  in  it;  on  Friday  it  had 
a  load  of  eggs  and  butter,  and  it  finished  up 
the  week  by  going  to  the  town  for  drunken 
Mat,  trundling  him  home  and  dropping  him 
at  his  own  door.  Then,  in  the  winter  time, 
when  trade  was  dull,  Paddy's  Bush  made  a 
most  admirable  combination  dog  kennel  and 
fowl  house;  for,  whilst  Mrs.  Monaghan's 
roosters  and  three  turkeys  perched  on  the 
rack  above,  and  the  ducks,  with  one  grey 
goose — the  others  were  stole  from  Shusie, 
good  woman,  at  Hallowday  by  the  card 
players,  bad  luck  to  them — squatted  under 
the  seats,  the  terrier  and  the  brown  colley 
slept  comfortably  on  the  cushions.  Yes,  it 
was  a  versatile  arrangement. 

On  a  certain  day  Paddy's  Bush  trundled 
to  Londonderry  with  a  (very)  general  cargo. 
It  was  fair  day  in  Londonderry.  When 
Paddy  had  discharged  the  cargo  he  took  a 
stroll  through  the  fair.  There  were  on  view, 
in  addition  to  the  other  animals  common  at 
fairs,  horses,  mules,  jennets,  and  quad- 
dhroop-eds — a  quad-dhroop-ed  being  Pad- 
dy's nomenclature  for  what  the  practical 


man  who  now  reads  these  pages  would  simply 
and  straightforwardly  call  a  jackass. 

Now  Paddy  bethought  him  that  as  the 
Ware-day  was  on  him  he  required,  as  in  pre- 
vious years,  a  quad-dhroop-ed  for  the  pur- 
pose of  back-loading  manure  up  to  the 
broken  ground  in  the  nor*-aist  park,  and  con- 
sequently, prices  being  suitable,  a  quad- 
dhroop-ed  he  bought.  Then  the  question 
arose  how  was  he  to  get  it  home.  He 
searched  the  fair,  but  didn't  find  a  man  from 
the  neighbourhood  of  Cruckagar  who  might 
lead  the  quad-dhroop-ed  home  for  him. 
What  was  he  to  do?  He  consulted  with 
Aaron  M'Clay,  for  Aaron,  now  a  Derry  mer- 
chant, hailed  from  Cruckagar,  and  still  took 
a  lively  interest  in  his  native  place,  and  a 
friendly  interest  in  any  person  therefrom. 
Paddy  Monaghan  was  a  particular  favourite 
with  him,  for  Paddy  carried  him  the  weekly 
budget  of  doings  and  sayings  at  Cruckagar. 
Paddy,  we  say,  in  his  perplexity,  consulted 
with  his  friend  Aaron;  and  his  friend  Aaron 
suggested  why  not  take  it  home  in  the  coach? 
The  idea  was  a  good  one.  Paddy  had  neither 
parcel  nor  passenger  to  take  back,  barrin*  a 


56       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

new  skillet  for  Nancy,  Father  Dan's  house- 
keeper, to  boil  Father  Dan's  spuds  in,  and 
a  new  Dolly  Varden  hat  for  Kitty  Shinag- 
han,  of  Sheskin,  that  was  trying  to  catch  Pat 
the  Widower,  that  intended  takin'  another 
wife,  they  were  sayin',  afore  Lent;  and  easily 
he  could  carry  these  items  on  top  of  the 
coach,  lodging  the  quad-dhroop-ed  inside, 
and  pulling  down  the  blinds,  so  that  man  or 
mortial  wouldn't  know  whether  it  was  the 
Sheriff  of  the  county  or  the  Lord  Lieutenant 
himself,  was  within.  A  bright  idea  it  was. 
So  with  Aaron's  help,  in  Aaron's  yard, 
quietly  and  quickly,  the  quad-dhroop-ed  was 
coerced  into  the  Bush,  the  blinds  drawn,  and 
the  door  fastened;  and  Paddy  Monaghan 
started  on  his  return  journey.  No  sooner 
did  Aaron  see  him  safely  off  than  he  went  to 
the  Post  Office,  and — for  he  was  a  wag,  and 
moreover  owed  one  to  Billy  M'Carter — tele- 
gramed  to  Seshaballymore  office,  the  tele- 
gram office  nearest  Cruckagar,  that  William 
Aughrim  Eoarin'-Meg  Walker,  Governor  of 
the  Apprentice  Boys,  and  Worshipful  Master 
of  the  Londonderry  Glorious  Memories  of 
Bloody  Fields  L.O.L.,  99,942,  had  taken  his 


The  Quad-dhroop-eds  57 

departure  from  Londonderry  en  route  to 
Cruckagar,  and  that  he  would  arrive  at  his 
destination  at  or  after  11  p.m.  in  Mr.  Patrick 
Monaghan's  coach,  and  it  was  to  be  hoped 
that  Mr.  M'Carter  and  Mr.  M'Carter's  friends 
would  give  him  a  royal  Donegal  wel- 
come! 

The  Postmaster  at  Seshaballymore  was  a 
loyal  Orangeman,  was  a  warm  friend  and 
partisan  of  Billy  M'Carter's,  moreover.  So, 
an  equestrian  messenger  he  despatched — 
Jimmy  the  Post — on  the  Dapple,  with  the 
good  news  to  Billy.  Then  was  the  furor  in 
Cruckagar,  and  the  rush  and  the  push,  and 
the  scouting  and  scurrying,  till  the  great 
news  was  dispersed  to  the  extremities  of  the 
parish,  and  the  copy  of  the  telegram  itself 
went  round,  the  fiery  cross  to  bid  Billy 
M'Carter's  legions  in.  And  by  half-past  ten 
o'clock  that  night  there  wasn't  a  true 
Orangeman  within  the  bounds  of  the  parish 
who  still  owned  allegiance  to  Billy  and  his 
cause,  that  didn't  stand  on  the  street  of 
Cruckagar  with  colours  displayed  awaiting 
the  bold  Billy's  behest.  Band  and  banner 
were  quickly  paraded  to  head  the  procession, 


58       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

and  torches  being  lighted  and  music  struck 
up,  a  gallant  body  of  not  less  than  three  hun- 
dred brave  and  dauntless  brethren  of  the 
Cruckagar  Death  or  Glory  Devoted  Sons  of 
William,  L.O.L.,  19,019,  marched  gallantly 
forward  on  the  Deny  road. 

Three  miles  out,  Paddy  Monaghan's  Bush 
was  sighted,  trundling  along  the  moonlit 
road.  A  wild  cheer  rent  the  air,  the  band 
quickly  struck  up  "See!  the  Conquering  Hero 
Comes,"  and  rapidly  they  advanced.  Paddy 
was  looking  behind  him,  surmising  to  him- 
self who  might  be  coming  after,  that  they 
were  going  out  to  meet,  when  he  found  the 
Bush  surrounded  by  the  hoarsely  howling 
excited  multitude,  his  mare  unloosed  from 
the  vehicle,  himself  unceremoniously  hauled 
from  his  seat  and  hustled  aside.  He  en- 
deavoured to  ask  two  or  three,  by  shouting 
into  their  ears  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  what  it 
all  meant;  but  even  if  he  could  shout  loud 
enough  to  make  himself  intelligible  in  the 
midst  of  the  deafening  cheers  that  continu- 
ously rolled  up,  no  one  had  time  to  listen  to 
him,  much  less  answer  his  questions.  In  an- 
other minute,  six  Death  or  Glory  Devoted 


The  Quad-dhroop-eds  59 

Sons  of  William,  getting  within  the  shafts, 
had  started  the  Bush,  and  the  triumphal  pro- 
cession, leaving  Paddy  and  his  old  mare  a 
dumbfounded,  not  to  say  ill-used,  pair. 
Though  from  thence  to  Cruckagar  the  drum- 
mer drummed,  and  the  fif ers  fifed  for  all  they 
were  worth,  they  drummed  and  fifed  in  vain, 
for  volley  on  volley  of  cheering  unintermit- 
tent,  drowned  their  drumming  and  their  fif- 
ing as  completely  as  though  they  had  only 
made  a  pretence  to  drum  and  fife.  Into 
Cruckagar  the  procession  rolled,  gathering 
volume  as  it  went,  and  through  Cruckagar 
and  up  to  the  door  of  their  lodge,  which 
stood  right  opposite  the  Eectory,  in  which 
they  were  quickly  made  aware  the  Eev. 
Simon  with  Murray  M'Clure,  and  their  par- 
tisans, had  assembled  to  sympathise  with 
each  other,  and  to  watch  the  proceedings  op- 
posite. Eight  in  front  of  the  Eeetory  par- 
lour window,  where  the  base  ones  and  the 
deserters  could,  to  their  gall,  get  a  full  view 
of  the  proceedings,  the  six  Death  or  Glory 
Devoted  Sons  of  William  within  the  shafts 
of  the  Bush  rested  from  their  labours  by 
command  of  Billy,  and  three  ringing,  defiant 


6o       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

cheers  were  given  which,  like  daggers, 
pierced  the  very  souls  of  the  M'Clurites 
within  the  Kectory.  William  Aughrim 
Boarin'-Meg  Walker,  who  had  not  hitherto 
— as  indeed  became  one  so  illustrious  among 
his  people — chosen  to  acknowledge  the  ova- 
tion in  his  honour,  nor  yet  even  drawn  the 
blinds,  would  now,  on  opening  the  door  of 
the  Bush,  and  ere  yet  he  had  stepped  down 
from  it,  be  asked  to  stand  full  front  towards 
the  shrinking  foe  (in  the  Eectory),  and  there 
with  scathing  tongue  lash  the  treacherous 
ones  till  they  writhed  again!  Joy  of  joys  to 
Billy,  the  moment  of  sweet  retribution 
long  looked  forward  to,  was  now  at  hand! 

But  there  was  still  a  slight,  unaccountable 
delay.  The  blinds  were  still  undrawn,  the 
door  of  the  Bush  unopened.  Surely  the  oc- 
cupant had  not,  could  not,  have  fallen  asleep, 
nor  yet  remained  asleep  during  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  past  half -hour,  proceedings  which 
might  have  called  the  dead  out  of  the  grave- 
yard? Billy  knocked  a  respectful  knock  at 
the  door  of  the  Bush.  A  painful  pause. 
"  Three  cheers  for  Misther  Walker  an'  King 
William."  With  all  the  power  of  their  lungs 


The  Quad-dhroop-eds  61 

this  was  responded  to.  Billy  knocked  again. 
Another  painful  pause.  "  Three  cheers  for 
Darry  walls."  This  demand,  too,  was  well 
and  loudly  honoured.  Billy  gave  a  third 
knock — a  bold  one  this  time.  During  the 
pause,  now,  a  batch  of  eager  faces  were  dis- 
cerned pressed  against  the  panes  of  the  Rec- 
tory parlour  window.  "  Three  more  cheers, 
boys,  for  Simon  an*  his  sarpints."  Re- 
sponded to  with  enthusiastic  venom.  There 
was  nothing  for  it  now  but  to  open  the  door 
of  the  Bush  and  find  what  was  the  matter. 
Open  Billy  had  it  in  a  jiffey.  Yes,  there  was 
a  noise  inside  as  if  of  some  one  gathering 
himself  together  for  the  purpose  of  emerg- 
ing. Billy  and  the  crowd  fell  back  a  pace 
at  this  to  give  him  room,  and  at  a  signal  from 
Billy,  to  greet  William  Aughrim  Roarin'- 
Meg  Walker,  Worshipful  Grand  Master  of 
the  Londonderry  Glorious  Memories  of 
Bloody  Fields  L.O.L.,  99,942,  on  his  emer- 
gence, the  crowd  as  one  man  set  up  "  The 
Battle  of  the  Boyne  "  : 

"July  the  First,  in  Oldbridge  town 

There  was  a  grievous  battle, 
Where  many  a  man  lay  on  the  ground 

By  cannons  that  did  rattle  : 
King  James  he  pitched  his  tents  between  " — 


62       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

And  at  this  instant  the  inmate  of  the  Bush, 
from  the  door  projected  a  head  adorned  with 
two  enormous  lugs,  and,  jealous  that  they 
should  have  all  the  music  to  themselves, 
forthwith  lifted  up  his  voice  in  one  long, 
loud,  and  most  harrowingly  unmelodious 
bray!  Those  people  who  write  fiction,  find- 
ing their  imaginations  unable  to  cope  with 
a  crisis  they  have  created,  have  a  shallow 
trick  of  slinking  from  their  duty  by  saying, 
"  Here  we  drop  the  curtain."  Now,  willy 
nilly,  I  am  constrained  to  make  use  of  the 
shabby  subterfuge  of  these  fellows. 
Here  I  drop  the  curtain! 


III. 

Eaise  it  again,  and  behold  it  is  Sunday 
morning.  And  we  are  in  Church — Cruck- 
agar  Church,  too;  for  there  you  see  many  of 
our  old  friends.  Billy  M'Carter,  with  mel- 
ancholy mien  is  below;  Murray  M'Clure,  with 
something  akin  to  a  gleam  of  malignant  tri- 
umph on  his  face,  sits  well  to  the  front;  the 
Eev.  Simon  M'Whan,  with  a  meek  expression 
on  his  face,  is  just  entering  the  pulpit. 

"  Dearly  beloved,"  the  good  man  said,  ad- 
justing his  glasses  and  taking  up  the  large 
Bible,  "  for  my  text  this  day  you  will  turn 
to  Numbers,  twenty-second  chapter,  twenty- 
eighth  and  twenty-ninth  verses — there  we 
read — 

"  *  And  the  Lord  opened  the  mouth  of  the 
ass,  and  she  said:  "What  have  I  done  to 
thee?  Why  strikest  thou  me,  lo,  this  third 
time?" 

"' Balaam  answered:  "Because  thou  hast 


64       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

deserved  it,  and  hast  served  me  ill:  I  would 
I  had  a  sword  that  I  might  kill  thee." ' " 

On  the  Sunday  following,  a  little  flock, 
with  Billy  M'Carter  as  pastor,  met  for  Divine 
worship  in  one  of  Billy's  barns,  and  from 
that  time  forward  constituted  an  indepen- 
dent congregation  in  themselves.  As  they 
assumed  no  name,  a  name  was  sought  for 
them,  and  one  for  their  pastor.  Balaam,  his 
enemies  gave  to  Billy,  and  the  Quad-dhroop- 
eds  to  his  congregation.  Their  first  collec- 
tion, be  it  noted,  was  lifted  to  compensate 
Paddy  Monaghan  for  a  slaughtered  animal. 


The  Prince  of  Wales'  Own 
Donegal  Militia 


The  Prince  of  Wales'  Own 
Donegal  Militia 

THE  P.  W.  0.,  or  Prince  of  Wales'  Own 
Donegal  Militia,  was,  in  the  year  of  our  tale 
(some  fifty  years  since),  one  of  the  finest  bod- 
ies of  men  that  ever  outflanked  a  beefsteak, 
or  stormed  a  breakfast-table;  whilst  the  cool 
and  dauntless  audacity  with  which  half  a 
dozen  of  the  heroic  fellows  would  attack  a 
solid  square  of  porter  bottles,  and  carry  a 
magazine  of  beers  at  the  point  of  the  cork- 
screw, has  ever  been  alike  the  envy  and  the 
admiration  of  every  other  body  of  military 
in  the  Green  Isle — the  famous  North  Corks 
not  even  excepted.  True,  their  enemies 
urged  that  in  point  of  discipline  they  were 
not  quite  what  would  have  been  expected  of 
a  martial  body  sporting  the  proud  colours  of 
Britain,  and  that  their  courage  in  time  of 
trial  would  not  be  of  the  mould  to  reflect 


68       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

eternal  honour  on  the  proud  flag,  under 
whose  glorious  shadow  it  was  their  envious, 
unpurchasable,  etc.,  privilege  to  march.  But 
very  evidently  the  malicious  grumblers,  who 
would  so  slander  the  Prince  of  Wales'  Own, 
never  saw  those  gallant  troops  marching  to 
dinner — hay  foot,  straw  foot,  right  foot,  left 
— or  each  struggling  manfully  in  the  last 
ditch  with  his  seventeenth  bottle,  else  the 
lips  of  the  vile  slanderers  had  on  those  points 
been  sealed  et  in  secula  seculorum.  It  must 
indeed  be  admitted  that  in  the  Prince  of 
Wales'  Own  Donegal  Militia  the  undue  famil- 
iarity which,  we  are  told  in  the  proverb,  is 
apt  to  breed  contempt,  obtained  rather  much 
between  the  non-commissioned  officers  and 
the  privates  for  the  three-quarters  of  the 
year  during  which  they  were  gentle  and 
peaceable  civilians,  waxing  their  ends,  knot- 
ting their  threads,  philosophising  at  street 
corners,  pedestrianising  for — for — health,  I 
suppose,  and  profit;  collecting  bric-a-brac 
and  antiques  in  exchange  for  pins  and 
needles;  bird-fancying — a  pleasant  and 
gentle  vocation  which  they  usually  followed 
by  the  silvery  light  of  the  horned  moon;  and 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia   69 

the  other  multifarious  pursuits  in  which  the 
soldier-civilian  during  his  long  vacation 
takes  a  part.  As  a  consequence  of  the  fa- 
miliarity so  begotten,  when  they  donned  the 
uniform  they  unfortunately  did  not  sink  the 
civilian  in  the  soldier,  and  the  respect  paid 
by  the  private  to  his  sergeant  was  in  many 
instances  just  not  such  as  was  due  to  a  mili- 
tary superior.  Indeed,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  perhaps  the  sergeant  or  the  corporal  did 
not  always  preserve  that  dignity  and  .hauteur 
towards  his  subordinates  which  is  usually  of 
necessity  affected  by  men  of  rank  to  inspire 
those  beneath  them  with  respect  and  awe. 
As — pray  listen: 

"  Number  Twinty-wan,  will  ye  hould  yer 
gun  erackt — don't  think  it's  a  hatchet  ye 
have  in  yer  hand  goin'  to  knock  down  a  pig. 
Do  ye  hear  me,  Dolan?  " 

"  Troth,  I  do  hear  ye,  Sarjint;  it  isn't  hard 
to  hear  ye  this  wee  while;  ye  make  more 
noise  lately  than  ye  used  to  do  leapin'  off  the 
table." 

A  hearty  subdued  laugh  ripples  along  the 
line. 

"  Number     Twinty-wan,     I'll     make     it 


70       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

hot  for  ye  afore  ye  go  home  to  Susy 
again." 

"  No  need,  Sarjint,  avic,  makin'  it  hot  for 
me — it's  not  a  goose  ye  have  in  it.  I'm  not 
frettin'  about  gettin'  back  to  Susy,  aither;  I 
know  she  can  live  rightly,  for  I  left  plinty  of 
callage  behind  for  her." 

"Ye're  a  deep  scoundhril,  Dolan." 

"Not  as  deep  as  a  taityer's  thimble,  Sar- 
jint." 

"I'll  thrash  the  eowl  out  of  ye  some 
day." 

"  Baste  it  out  of  me,  ye  mane?  " 

"Yer  onsobordinate,  sir." 

"Say  that  one  again,  Sarjint;  it's  a 
thumper,  wherever  ye  come  by  it." 

Then  elsewhere — 

"  Stand  at  aise,  Three-an'-thirty." 

"  I  am  at  aise." 

"Thurn  out  yer  right  toe,"  curtly. 
"  That's  not  yer  right  toe,  ye  omadhaun  ye; 
do  ye  know  the  toe  ye  bliss  yerself  with — 
the  hand,  I  mane.  Thurn  out  the  toe  of 
that  hand — the  toe  of  that  fut." 

"But  I  don't  bliss  meself  with  me  fut, 
Corplar." 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia    71 

"  Number  Three-an'-thirty,  thurn  out  the 
right  toe  of  yer  right  fut  immaijetly." 

"  Have  a  bit  of  raison  with  ye,  Corplar 
Muldoon;  sure,  haven't  I  five  toes  on  me 
right  fut,  an'  I'm  blowed  if  I  know  which  of 
the  five  ye  want  me  to  thurn  out." 

"  Thurn  out  yer  right  fut  immaijetly, 
M'Guiggan,  or  I'll  have  ye  drum-headed,  ye 
scoundhril." 

"  There's  me  right  foot  out  now.  I  didn't 
like  for  you  to  go  an'  reflict  on  me  foot  by 
evenin'  to  me  that  I  had  only  the  one  toe  on 
it." 

"  Hould  yer  tongue,  sir." 

"  I'll  have  to  let  go  the  gun  if  I  do." 

"I'll  take  the  uniform  off  ye,  M'Guig- 
gan." 

"  Ye  couldn't." 

"Couldn't  I?" 

"No,  for  ye  haven't  got  yer  pins*  about 

ye." 

"  I'll  take  the  uniform  off  ye,  sir,  an'  I'll 
give  ye — " 

"  Twelve  rows  of  pins,  at  laist;  divil  a  toe 

*  Rag-pickers  give  rows  of  pins  in  exchange  for  the 
wares  they  receive. 


J2       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

it  'ill  go  into  yer  bag  this  day  for  less,  Cor- 
plar." 

"  Ye're  a  low-lif ed  scrub,  M'Guiggan." 

"  Thankee,  Misther  Muldoon;  ye  can  keep 
that  yerself." 

Also — 

'"  Shouldher  arms! " 

"  Shouldher  arms,  Three-score!  " 

"  Sure  I  am  shoulderin'  them  as  fast  as  I 
can/' 

"  It  takes  ye  the  divil  of  a  long  time  to 
do  it,  then;  an*  yer  as  awkward-lookin'  at  it 
as  a  monkey  playin'  the  piano.  Numbers 
Two-score-an'-nineteen,  an'  Three-score-an'- 
wan,  plaise  shouldher  arms  to  show  Three- 
score how  to  do  it  with  grace.  Do  ye  ob- 
sarve  that,  Three-score?  " 

"  Och,  I  obsarve  it;  but  do  you  obsarve 
that  I  don't  thank  aither  of  them  boys  to  do 
it  with  grace.  Two-score-an'-nineteen  is 
used  at  shouldhering  his  budget;  an'  Three- 
score-an'-wan  is  a  butcher,  an'  sure  ye  nivir 
yit  knew  a  butcher  that  wasn't  graise  from 
the  sole  of  his  head  to  the  crown  of  his 
foot — from  the  crown  of  his  sole,  I  mane, 
to  the  head  of — I  mane  from  the  foot  of 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia   73 

his  crown  to — to —  Ye  know  what  I 
mane." 

"Faix,  it  would  be  afther  takin'  a  purty 
smart  man  to  know  what  you  mane — barrin' 
when  yer  hungry;  ye  make  people  undher- 
stan'  that  quick  enough." 

"  Ay,  Sarjint,  avic,  it's  '  like  masther  like 
man/  ye  know." 

"  Shouldher  yer  arms,  sir,  and  keep  that 
extinsive  mouth  of  yours  closed,  or  I'll  be 
able  to  see  nothing  behind  it." 

"  Closed  it  is,  sir;  an'  I'd  always  oblige  ye 
by  keeping  it  out  of  yer  light  if  I  could  only 
know  when  ye're  lookin'  this  way — but  that 
same  isn't  aisy,  troth,  from  the  deuced  con- 
thrairy  way  them  purty  pair  of  eyes  of  yours 
has  of  lookin'  across  aich  other." 

"  I'll  have  ye  removed  out  of  yer  ranks, 
sir,  and  put  undher  guard." 

"  Well,  I'll  thank  Providence  an*  you  for 
the  happy  relaise." 

It  happened  on  one  sunny  day  in  a  sunny 
June  of  the  time  heretofore  hinted  at,  that 
Colonel  Bloodanfire,  having  distinguished 
guests,  resolved  to  entertain  them  by  a  field 
day  and  general  review  of  his  gallant  Done- 


74       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

gals.  In  his  cups,  on  the  previous  night,  he 
had  committed  himself  to  several  compre- 
hensive and  sweeping  statements  regarding 
the  discipline  and  courage  of  his  beloved 
regiment — statements  which,  viewed  in  the 
cold  and  searching  light  of  day,  rather  aston- 
ished the  gallant  colonel  himself,  presenting 
as  they  did  a  somewhat  different  aspect  from 
that  which  they  bore  when  only  the  red 
glamour  of  the  wine  fell  upon  them.  But 
Bloodanfire  was  a  man  of  his  word;  with  him 
there  was  no  retrospection  when  once  he  had 
put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  or  even  to  the 
bow — the  long  one.  His  character  and  the 
character  of  his  regiment  were  at  stake,  and 
he  was  resolved  all  should  put  their  best  foot 
foremost — be  the  same  either  the  foot  dec- 
orated with  the  hay-band,  or  the  one  orna- 
mented with  the  straw;  for  so  were  his  intel- 
ligent and  courageous  fellows  ingeniously 
aided  in  distinguishing  respectively  the  right 
foot  and  the  left.  Accordingly,  a  council  of 
war,  alike  of  the  commissioned  and  the  non- 
commissioned officers,  was  called  on  the 
morning  of  the  great,  the  eventful  day,  at 
which  the  Colonel  laid  before  his  subordi- 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia    75 

nates  the  state  of  affairs,  and  urged  upon 
them  the  pressing  need  of  making  on  that 
day  a  special  effort  to  far  excel  all  their 
brightest  records  of  the  past,  and  with 
united  will,  by  a  long  pull,  a  strong  pull, 
and  a  pull  all  together,  at  once  pull  the 
regiment  through  the  ordeal  satisfactorily, 
and  pull  him  out  of  his  dilemma.  By  a 
judicious  use  of  corkscrews,  he  screwed 
their  courage  to  the  sticking  point,  and  each 
man  became  loud,  in  fact  very  loud,  not  to 
say  noisy,  in  his  protestations  and  declara- 
tions of  using  his  every  endeavour  to  make 
that  a  red-letter  day  in  the  annals  of  the 
Prince  of  Wales'  Own  Donegal  Militia.  And 
they  kept  their  word,  only  too  well. 

It  was  well  advanced  in  the  forenoon,  al- 
most bordering  on  the  afternoon,  when  the 
regiment,  which  had  been  under  arms  all 
morning,  was  marched  out  to  an  extensive 
plain  a  short  distance  from  the  Barracks. 
The  Colonel's  guests,  both  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, were  there  to  witness  the  celerity  and 
the  extraordinary  military  talents,  of  which 
they  had  heard  so  much,  of  the  boasted 
regiment.  The  Colonel,  informing  his 


'  76       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

friends  that  this  was  his  strong  point,  kept 
his  men  for  some  hours  marching  and  coun- 
termarching, forming  and  wheeling;  and 
going  through  again  and  again  the  element- 
ary drill,  which  they  did  with  fclat.  At 
least  the  Colonel  said  it  was  with  eclat;  an 
enemy  to  the  Colonel,  and  to  the  fair  fame 
of  this  gallant  body  of  men,  who  happened 
to  be  on  the  ground,  however,  said  that  eclat 
must  in  that  case  be  French  for  noise.  The 
Colonel  had,  so  far,  been  nervously  endeav- 
ouring to  stave  off,  as  far  as  possible,  the 
event  of  the  day,  a  sham  battle  between  two 
sections  of  his  men,  the  probable  result  of 
which  he  could  only  anticipate  with  fear  and 
trembling;  and  he  thought  if  he  could  only 
keep  it  back,  the  sky  might  fall,  or  the  earth 
open,  or  fire  and  brimstone  come  down  and 
consume  the  whole  dodgasted  concern,  any- 
thing, anything — he  was  careless  and  reck- 
less as  to  their  mode  of  final  and  complete 
extinction — only  let  them  be  annihilated 
somehow,  and  his  credit  saved.  But,  unfor- 
tunately, after  he  had  kept  off  the  critical 
action  till  his  guests  had  begun  to  upbraid 
him  with  delay,  and  his  stomach  to  reproach 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia    77 

him  with  neglect,  and  his  men  to  grumble 
audibly,  asking  to  have  even  a  bit  of  dinner 
carried  out  to  them  in  a  red  handkerchief, 
for  that  their  bellies  were  bidding  their 
backs  "good-morrow" — after  he  had  thus 
earned  ill-will  on  all  hands,  and  the  fates 
and  elements  had  successfully  failed  to 
perform  a  diversion  on  his  account,  such  as 
he  piously  prayed  for,  and  both  earth  and 
sky  still  doggedly  remained  unmoved,  he  was 
at  length  compelled  to  give  the  dreaded 
order  for  the  division  of  the  regiment  into 
two  sections,  for  the  purpose  of  engaging  in 
the  bloodless  encounter,  one  section  standing 
motionless  to  receive  and  repel  the  charge 
of  the  other.  The  brave  fellows  on  each 
side,  goaded  by  the  cravings  of  their  stom- 
achs, feeling  far  more  deadly  enmity  towards 
the  Colonel  than  towards  each  other,  al- 
though about  to  engage  in  mortal  conflict, 
now  raised  their  voices  in  noisy  protest 
against  the  inhumanity  of  making  them  fight 
on  empty  stomachs.  The  battle  must  go  on 
though.  The  Colonel  determined  to  meet 
his  fate  like  a  man.  A  hurried  whispering 
might  have  been  observed  going  on  amongst 


78       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

the  Colonel's  friends.  One  of  them,  a  young 
fellow,  with  a  humorous  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
slipped  away,  unobserved  by  the  Colonel,  and 
left  the  field.  The  two  divisions,  not  indeed 
very  blood-thirsty  looking,  but  porter-and- 
beer-thirsty  enough,  faced  each  other  at  a 
respectful  distance.  The  order,  so  long 
withheld,  was  at  length  given  to  the  attack- 
ing party;  forward  they  moved,  first  at  the 
quick,  then  at  the  double  quick.  Things  be- 
gan to  get  exciting.  The  attitude  of  the 
approaching  columns  did  now  certainly  be- 
gin to  look  threatening  to  those  who  awaited 
their  attack,  with  growing  trepidation  and 
indecision,  in  front.  Very  evidently  the  on- 
coming party,  being  in  a  bad  humour,  were 
resolved  to  make  some  one  pay  the  piper; 
the  motionless  party  saw  this  and  quailed. 
The  space  between  them  was  short,  and  rap- 
idly diminishing;  another  minute,  and  the 
crash  would  come,  and — 

Ding  !    Dong  !   Ding  ! 
The  party  to  a  man  came  to  an  instantaneous 
halt!     It  was  the  great  dinner-gong  whose 
surprising  tones  rang  out  so  suddenly  and 
unexpectedly!    Now!  what — 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia    79 

DING!!   DONG!!   DING!! 
Both  parties  glanced  instinctively  towards 
the  Barracks,  and  then  towards  each  other, 
and — 

DING!!!   DONG!!!   DING!!! 

The  imperative  tones  of  that  last  overcame 
any  little  scruples  that  might  have  existed 
in  their  minds.  The  order  of  the  dinner- 
gong  was  the  first  order  that  the  Prince  of 
Wales'  Own  Donegal  Militia  had  learnt  to 
obey  with  alacrity.  However  dilatory  they 
may  have  been  in  performing  other,  as 
simple,  manoeuvres,  that  consequent  upon 
the  sound  of  the  mid-day  gong  was  picked 
up  and  gone  through  with  a  readiness  and 
tact  which  verily  astounded  the  drill-ser- 
geants. Never  had  the  sound  of  the  gong 
been  so  welcome  to  their  ears.  Would  they 
disobey?  Decidedly  not!  With  a  "  Hip! " 
"Whoop!"  and  "Hurroo!"  they  fled  and 
they  sped,  helter-skelter,  quick  and  quicker, 
over  ditch  and  dyke,  hedge  and  fence,  with- 
out stay  or  pause,  till  pell-mell  they  tumbled 
into  the  Barrack-yard,  panting  and  gasping 
and  struggling  for  breath. 

Poor  Bloodanfire  had  to  affect  joining  in 


80       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

the  hearty  and  rapturous  peal  of  laughter 
that  burst  from  his  friends,  and  accompanied 
them  to  dinner,  having  nothing  else  for  it. 
When  dinner  was  over  his  guests  lost  no  time 
in  urging  upon  him  the  necessity  of  getting 
out  his  flying  squadron  (at  whose  atrocious 
breach  of  discipline  he  determined  to  merely 
wink)  once  more  for  the  promised  encounter. 
So  after  they  had  ravenously  devoured  their 
meal,  the  Prince  of  Wales'  Own  Donegal 
Militia  were  again  marched  out  for  the  dread 
encounter.  The  Colonel  and  his  friends 
took  up  a  commanding  position  on  the  field, 
the  offensive  and  defensive  ranks  faced  each 
other,  word  was  passed  along  the  lines  that 
Colonel  Bloodanfire  expected  every  man  that 
day  to  do  his  duty.  The  command  was  at 
length  given,  and  the  attacking  party  now 
started  at  the  double  quick.  The  effects  of 
a  hearty  dinner  and  a  bottle  of  porter  had 
produced  a  reaction,  exalting  their  spirits; 
so  they  soon  increased  their  pace  to  the 
treble  quick,  every  man  of  them  itching  for 
the  chance  of  lathering  the  sowl  out  of  an 
opponent.  But  their  opponents,  having  to 
stand  cold-bloodedly  awaiting  the  attack,  had 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia    81 

not  that  stimulant  to  courage  which  a  hot 
race  at  an  enemy  ever  begets;  on  the  con- 
trary, they  fidgeted  and  murmured,  and  what 
courage  they  had  been  possessed  of,  began  to 
ooze  out,  like  Bob  Acres'.  The  other  party 
neared  them;  misgivings,  many  and  serious, 
took  hold  of  them;  they  looked  behind  them, 
looked  at  the  Colonel,  finally  once  more  at 
the  oncoming  whirlwind,  and  with  one  im- 
pulse, as  one  man,  they  executed  a  right- 
about-face movement  with  a  promptitude 
and  expedition  that  they  had  seldom  exhib- 
ited on  the  parade  ground,  and  fled!  Yes, 
they  fled,  with  even  a  swifter  pace  than  what 
they  had  shown  in  obedience  to  the  dinner- 
gong.  They  fled  far,  far  away,  over  the 
field,  over  a  crowd  of  loungers  who  had  come 
to  see  the  day's  sport,  over  hedge  and  over 
ditch,  till  they  had  got  well  out  of  the  battle- 
field. The  Colonel,  seeing  this,  boiled  over, 
his  friends  got  hysterical  with  laughter;  then 
the  Colonel  got  scarlet,  and  white,  and 
purple,  and  black.  He  swore  loudly,  and  the 
officers  of  the  retreating  division  swore 
loudly  in  sympathy,  and  halloed  and  shouted 
after  their  fast  retreating  forces,  who,  how- 
6 


82       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

ever,  had  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  lis- 
ten to  orders.  I  intimated  that  the  whole 
division  fled,  which  was  not  exactly  correct; 
for  one  valiant  private,  Donal  M'Glanaghy, 
Number  Two-score-and-five,  held  his  ground 
dauntlessly  like  a  man  and  a  soldier,  and  by 
repelling  (with  the  sole  aid  of  his  soldierly 
bearing)  the  attacking  force,  which  retreated 
from  the  attack  in  high  good  humour,  thus 
earned  for  himself  the  glory  which  other- 
wise had  been  distributed  over  half  a  regi- 
ment. 

When  the  flying  squadron  had  been  over- 
taken by  their  officers,  and  by  the  Colonel, 
who  pursued  them  hotly  also,  and  sur- 
rounded and  brought  back  to  the  field — for 
the  Colonel  was  determined  now  to  have  the 
manoeuvre  out,  at  any  cost — and  hotly  and 
roundly  rated,  and  their  deep  disgrace,  and 
the  disgrace  they  had  brought  upon  their 
regiment  and  their  Colonel,  and  even  their 
country,  in  the  eyes  of  the  satirical  strangers, 
had  been  painted  to  them  in  very  glowing,  or 
— I  might  plainly  say — in  red  hot,  words,  by 
their  naturally  enraged  Colonel,  they  were 
told  that  now,  under  pain  of  the  severest 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia    83 

penalties  court-martial  could  inflict  on  them 
severally,  they  must  receive  and  repel  the 
attack.  The  two  divisions  were  again 
formed,  the  order  given,  and  the  attackers 
came  on  a  third  time. 

"  Holy  Moses! "  said  one  of  the  defensive 
party,  as  the  others  swiftly  approached,  "  do 
ye  ohsarve  the  look  of  mischief  in  Condy 
M'Garry's  eye?"  referring  to  one  of  the 
attacking  party. 

"  Throth  an'  I  do,"  said  a  neighbour  of  the 
speaker's.  "  I  see  a  look  of  murder  in  his 
eye;  an'  the  same  lad  isn't  to  be  thrusted.  Be 
the  same  token  he  has  the  ould  spite  into 
you  since  the  night  of  the  shindy  down  at 
Monaghan's,  when  ye  gave  him  the  nate 
little  bit  of  a  dinge  on  the  skull.  Look  at 
the  eye  he  has  in  his  head  now;  as  sure  as 
there's  powder  in  Darry  he  manes  to  give  ye 
a  knock — look  out  for  yourself!  " 

"  Be  the  powdhers,  then,  he'll  not  have  it 
all  for  nothing!  he'll  get  the  same  sauce  that 
he  gives,  with,  maybe,  more  spices  in  it. 
Here's  at  ye,  M'Garry,  ye  sowl  ye!  Whir- 
roo! "  And  he  hereupon  sprang  forward 
from  the  ranks  to  meet  the  attack,  and  with 


84       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

clubbed  musket  levelled  the  wholly-innocent 
Condy. 

"A-hoo!"  "Hip!"  "Hurroo!"  "Fag-a- 
ballagh!  "  That,  and  not  the  officers'  orders, 
was  the  real  signal  for  the  attack.  There 
was  now  some  motive  to  fight  for,  and  some 
real  tangible  benefit  to  accrue  from  thus 
fighting,  far  better  than  a  mock  affair  in 
which  poor  fellows  playing  at  acting  on  the 
defensive  could  only  experience  dread  and 
uncertainty  at  the  formidable  and  armed 
host  hurled  against  them,  and  who  might 
mean  sham  or  reality  just  as  circumstances 
would,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  prompt. 
Besides,  here  was  an  opportunity,  a  grand 
opportunity,  for  them  to  cover  their  late  dis- 
grace. Providentially,  the  means  of  vindi- 
cating their  fame  is  thrown  in  their  way,  and 
they  must  take  advantage  of  it.  They  hesi- 
tated not,  but  threw  themselves  at  once,  with 
their  muskets  clubbed,  on  their  opponents, 
who  in  their  turn  entered  as  warmly  and 
heartily  into  the  spirit  of  the  thing  as  could 
be  desired.  It  was  utterly  useless  for  the 
Colonel  to  go  about  raging  and  stamping  and 
swearing,  with  the  officers  bawling,  and  haul- 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia    85 

ing,  and  pulling,  and  striking  right,  left,  and 
centre — all  was  quite  useless.  Both  sides 
pitched  into  each  other  with  a  spirit  that 
left  not  the  strangers  in  a  moment's  doubt 
as  to  whether  or  not  there  was  courage  in 
the  Prince  of  Wales'  Own  Donegal  Militia. 
They  slashed  and  smashed,  struck,  prodded, 
parried,  and  crashed,  yelled,  and  shrieked, 
bellowed,  cheered,  and  halloed,  giving  every 
evidence  of  being  engaged  in  one  of  the  fierc- 
est encounters  witnessed  on  a  European 
battlefield  since  memorable  "Waterloo.  And 
after  a  long  and  stiff  struggle  the  "  defen- 
sive" party  drove  their  attackers  clear  out 
of  the  field,  and  in  a  deep  ditch  beyond  they 
pommelled,  till  they  were  tired  and  wearied, 
at  all  who  could  not  succeed  in  escaping. 

On  the  following  morning  there  was  as- 
sembled on  parade  a  highly  picturesque, 
motley,  and  vagrant-looking  crew,  with  the 
value  of  a  little  fortune  in  sticking-plaster 
ornamenting  their  broken  features,  listening 
to  a  severe  harangue  from  a  highly-enraged 
Colonel. 

"  And  now,  Number  Forty-five,"  said  the 
Colonel,  when  he  had  used  up  all  the  threat- 


86       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

ening,  as  well  as  vituperative,  language  the 
English  tongue  vouchsafed;  "and  now,  Num- 
ber Forty-five,  Donal  M'Glanaghy,"  said  the 
Colonel,  "  kindly  step  forward." 

Donal — the  hero  who  had  valiantly  held 
his  ground  on  the  previous  day  at  the  second 
attack,  when  the  remainder  of  his  comrades 
had  so  disgracefully  fled — Donal  now  stepped 
forward  with  one  arm  in  a  sling,  one  eye 
closed  and  black,  and  a  ridge  of  sticking- 
plaster  extending  from  his  nose  to  his  right 
ear.  He  raised  his  sound  arm  in  salute. 

"Private  Donal  M'Glanaghy,"  said  the 
Colonel,  "  when  your  unworthy  comrades  on 
yesterday  disgraced  themselves,  their  regi- 
ment, and  me,  you  alone  held  your  ground 
in  a  manner  of  which  I  was  proud,  in  a  man- 
ner which  reflected  the  greatest  credit  upon 
your  training  and  upon  yourself,  and  which" 
— and  here  the  Colonel  stamped  and  threw 
a  fierce  look  at  the  dilapidated  ranks  before 
him — "  and  which  can  not  be  permitted  to 
go  unrewarded.  Say  what  would  you  wish 
as  a  recognition  of  your  sterling  manliness." 

Donal  blushed,  touched  his  cap,  and 
said,— 


Prince  of  Wales'  Donegal  Militia    87 

"Well,  yer  honour,  Colonel,  I'm  thinkin' 
maybe  ye'd  be  afther  givin'  me  the  Victhory 
Crass.  I  b'lieve  it's  given  in  reward  for  such 
actions." 

"What!  the  Victoria  Cross!"  said  the 
Colonel,  taken  aback.  "  The  Victoria  Cross! 
Oh,  but  you  know,  my  good  man,  that  is  an 
honour  only  given  as  the  very  highest  and 
greatest  reward  for  the  most  daring  and 
valiant  action  a  British  soldier  could  per- 
form. The  Victoria  Cross!  Oh,  no,  no,  my 
good  man,  that  is  far  beyond  my  power. 
You  will  have  to  ask  something  else,  some- 
thing more  moderate,  something  more  in 
reason." 

"Well,  then,  Colonel,  yer  honour,"  said 
Donal,  touching  his  cap  again  and  standing 
erect,  "  if  ye  couldn't  give  me  the  Victhory 
Cross,  maybe,  Colonel,  yer  honour,  YE  COULD 

GIVE    ME    AN"     OULD     HALF-WORN     PAIR    O' 
THRO  USERS  YE'D  HAVE  NO  MORE  USE  FOR  ! " 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance 

BABNEY  was  not  naturally  bad.  Take  him 
in  the  round,  and,  I  daresay,  he  had  full  as 
many  virtues  as  the  average  Irishman.  But 
the  fact  is,  he  was  inveterately  addicted  to 
fibbing.  Still,  his  stories  were  invented  with 
the  very  laudable  object  of  entertaining  his 
listeners.  If  Barney  could  not  invite  you  to 
his  own  home,  there  to  help  him  partake  of 
a  good  dinner  or  a  warm  supper — simply  be- 
cause he  had  no  home — he  did  the  next  best 
thing  in  his  power,  and  strung  a  good  thump- 
ing lie  into  a  rather  enjoyable  yarn,  and 
then  and  there  treated  you  to  it.  I  cannot 
say — I  never  could  find  out — whether  Bar- 
ney expected  you,  in  return  for  his  kindness, 
to  put  any  degree  of  faith  in  these  yarns. 
Some  held  that  he  did.  But,  be  Barney's 
wishes  what  they  might  on  that  subject,  I 
am  certain  that  no  one  ever  did  believe  one 


92       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

of  his  stories — unless,  indeed,  it  was  some 
innocent  stranger  whom  Barney  got  into  his 
hands.  "It's  as  thrue  as  one  of  Barney 
Roddy's  yarns,"  passed  into  a  proverb  in  that 
part  of  Donegal  which  Barney  honoured  with 
his  residence,  and  signified  that  the  state- 
ment in  question  was  a  forty  o.  p.  lie. 

"Barney,"  said  I,  one  evening  in  harvest 
— as  I  took  my  seat  on  the  whin  ditch  beside 
which  he  was  digging  potatoes  for  Mickey 
Roarty — "  Barney,  it's  a  great  wonder  to  me 
you  never  married." 

"  Is  it,  faix?  "  And  Barney  dug  on  with 
seemingly  increased  energy  for  the  space  of 
five  minutes,  during  which  time  I  was  care- 
ful not  to  disturb  him. 

"  Is  it,  faix? "  he  queried  again,  as  he 
crossed  his  arms  on  the  spade  and  looked  me 
equarely  in  the  face.  "Maybe  it's  me  that 
was  married!  an'  well  married,  too!  Hagh! 
Ay,  it  wasn't  to  one  I  was  married  at  all, 
but  to  a  dozen  of  them!  To  a  dozen  divils, 
an'  ivery  one  of  them  worse  nor  the  other! " 
saying  which  he  plunged  his  spade  viciously 
into  the  ridge,  and  resumed  his  digging  in 
a  fierce  manner. 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance        93 

"What  do  you  mean,  Barney ?"  said  I, 
for  I  saw  that  he  now  only  wanted  the  invi- 
tation to  commence  spinning  a  yarn;  "  sure, 
if  you  married  a  dozen  you  would  be  trans- 
ported for  polygamy." 

"  I  nivir  had  anything  to  say  to  the  girl, 
thanks  be  to  Providence!  " 

"Never  had  anything  to  say  to  what 
girl?" 

"Polly  Gammer/' 

"  Oh!  Barney,  you  mistake  me.  Poly- 
gamy means  the  marrying  of  a  great  number 
of  wives.  How  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  could  marry  a  dozen?" 

"I  don't  know  if  there  was  a  dozen.  There 
was  eight  of  them  anyhow,  I  daresay;  but 
I  nivir  counted  them." 

"  And  what  tempted  you  to  marry  eight 
wives?" 

"  It  was  pinance  for  my  sins." 

"I  should  say  that  was  a  severe  penance. 
I  have  known  men  who  had  only  one  wife, 
and  they  allowed  their  life  was  a  burthen  to 
them." 

"  Throth,  then,  them  men's  life  was  a 
Garden  of  Aiden  compared  to  mine  for  the 


94      Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

ten  days  I  was  in  the  blissed  state  of 
matthermony.  I  married  my  wife  out  of 
purgathory — St.  Pathrick's  purgathory* — 
and  I  had  to  take  all  her  sisthers  an'  aunts, 
for  sivin  jinnyrations  back  into  the  bargain, 
an*  be  me  socks  I  got  me  fill  of  them.  It 
was  a  sevair  pinance!  " 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Barney." 
"  Give  us  a  shough  of  that  pipe.  Thanky. 
Keep  yer  eye  about  ye  for  fear  ye'd  find 
Micky  Koarty  comin',  an'  give  me  warnin'; 
for  he's  a  dhirty  bear,  an'  thinks  if  he  gives 
a  man  a  shillin'  a  day  with  praties  an'  point, 
he  thinks  you  should  make  a  black  neygar 
of  yerself  an'  work  the  very  sowl  out  through 
yer  body  for  him;  if  he  sees  ye  liftin'  yer 
head  to  say  l  God  save  ye '  to  a  naybour 
passin'  the  way,  ye'd  think  he'd  jump  down 
yer  throat."  Here  Barney  seated  himself 
comfortably  on  a  head  of  cabbage,  and  puff- 
ing the  pipe  like  a  steam  engine,  he  com- 
menced. 

"  Well,  to  yock  at  the  beginning  ye  see  it 
was  the  time  I  lived  in  Tyrone,  afore  I  come 
into  this  counthry,  a  party  of  us,  naybours, 

*  Lough  Derg. 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance        95 

was  comin'  back  from  the  fair  of  Dhrimore, 
an'  be  the  same  token,  there  wasn't  a  man 
in  the  party  that  wasn't  rather  gay;  an  when 
we  come  as  far  as  Nancy  Hannigan's  my 
throat  was  as  dhry  as  a  lime-burner's  hat, 
an'  I  said  we  wouldn't  pass  it  till  we'd  know 
what  sort  of  stuff  Nancy  had  in  the  wee  keg. 
No  sooner  said  nor  done.  We  knocked  up 
Nancy  in  a  gintale  way  be  puttin'  in  the  door 
with  a  rock,  an'  afther  Nancy  thrated  us  for 
our  kind  attintions,  we  got  into  a  wee  bit  of 
verrins  (variance)  as  regards  which  of  us  was 
the  best  man.  There  was  a  weeny  bit  of  a 
tailyer,  the  size  of  two  good  thurf  an'  a  clod, 
an'  he  got  up  on  the  table,  whin  the  argy- 
mint  was  at  its  highest,  an'  he  commenced 
abusin'  ivery  man  of  the  party  with  langidge 
a  dog  wouldn't  take  off  his  hands,  an'  he 
said  if  he  had  only  his  own  lapboord  he'd 
clear  the  house  of  ivery  mother's  sowl  of  us, 
while  he'd  be  sayin'  Jack  Eobinson.  Troth, 
the  impidence  of  the  wee  rascal  put  us  to  a 
stan'  for  a  minute,  an'  when  I  got  me  breath 
agane,  I  took  the  wee  brat  by  the  scroof  of 
the  neck  an'  threw  him  out  of  the  door,  an' 
as  he  was  flyin'  out  I  give  him  just  a  nate 


96       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

little  nap  with  me  stick  that  happened  to 
crack  his  skull.  But  we  did  what  we  could 
for  him — ordhered  a  nice  coffin,  an'  ex- 
pended tuppence-ha'penny  to  have  it  painted 
black;  give  him  a  rousin'  wake;  an'  then  the 
funeral  was  somethin'  to  open  yer  eyes!  We 
got  six  other  tailyers  to  carry  him  on  lap- 
boords,  an'  berred  him  with  a  goose  at  his 
head.  It  was  more  than  the  wee  divil  de- 
earved;  but  seein'  that  he  met  with  the  wee 
mistake  in  our  company,  we  thought  we 
would  do  things  square  by  him,  an'  we  knew 
the  display  would  be  a  consolation  to  his 
widda.  "Well,  of  coorse,  I  thought  it  was  all 
over  an'  past;  but  what  would  ye  have  iv  it, 
but  Father  Luke  kicked  up  such  a  shindy 
over  the  affair,  that  he'd  almost  laive  ye 
ondher  the  impression  there  was  nivir  a 
man's  skull  cracked  in  the  North  of  Irelan' 
for  a  hundred  years  afore.  An'  it  would  be 
enough,  too,  if  it  was  a  man's  skull  that  was 
cracked,  and  not  sich  a  dawny  wee  sickly 
droich  of  a  thing.  Howan'ivir,  the  upshot 
of  the  whole  thing  was  that  Father  Luke 
ordhered  me  to  Lough  Dharrig  (Derg)  to  do 
pinance. 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance        97 

"  Well,  when  the  time  come  round,  I  spit 
on  me  stick,  an'  made  for  the  Lough.  An' 
maybe  I  hadn't  a  high  ould  time  of  it  there. 
Finance!  Throgs  ye'd  niver  know  what 
pinance  is  till  ye'd  go  to  Lough  Dharrig. 
The  Lord  forgive  me,  it's  often  when  I 
should  be  sayin'  a  mouthful  of  prayers  for 
the  sowl  of  the  wee  tailyer,  it's  often  I'm 
afeard  it  was  inventin'  new  curses  for  him 
I  was.  Sweet  good  luck  to  him  if  I  didn't 
suffer  in  Lough  Dharrig  that  tarm  for  him! 
Thundher  and  thumps,  I  had  a  corn  on  my 
feet  fornenst  ivery  day  of  the  week,  an'  it's 
as  careful  I  was  about  them  corns,  as  I  would 
be  about  my  own  mother;  but  the  usage 
they  met  in  Lough  Dharrig,  throttin'  thim 
Stations  on  me  bare  feet,  was  enough  to 
dhraw  tears  from  a  stone.  Ye'd  think  ivery 
pebble  on  the  path  was  spayshally  sharpened 
agane  my  arrival,  an'  whin  wan  of  me  corns 
would  come  down  atop  of  a  pebble  that  had 
a  corner  on  it  as  sharp  as  a  fish-hook,  I 
would  give  a  yell,  an'  jump  the  height  of 
meself,  jist  landin'  down  with  another  corn 
atop  of  the  next  stone!  Between  the  yellin' 
and  the  skippin'  I'm  thinkin'  that  ye  might 


98       Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

put  my  prayers  in  yer  weskit  pocket  without 
much  throuble  to  ye.  There  was  one  ould 
voteen,  an'  he  had  a  skin  to  the  sole  of  his 
own  foot  that  was  as  tough  as  a  donkey's 
hoof,  an'  when  I  jumped,  an'  yelled,  an'  come 
down  maybe  atop  of  some  of  me  naybours, 
he  would  say — the  infarnal  scoundhril! — 
that  I  was  a  disgrace  to  the  place,  an'  that 
I  should  be  put  out.  Then,  the  night  I  had 
to  sit  up  in  the  chapel — och,  that  was  the 
tarror  intirely!  Whin  I  was  bobbin'  over 
me  head,  an'  f  oun'  I  couldn't  houl'  out  any 
longer,  I  said  to  meself  I  would  jist  close 
me  eye  for  three  winks;  but  the  words  were 
scarcely  out  of  me  mouth  when,  by  Jimminy! 
the  same  ould  voteen  gives  me  a  rap  over  the 
skull  with  a  crosshin  of  a  stick  that  I  thought 
he  lifted  the  top  of  the  head  clane  off  me. 
I  thurned  on  him  an'  I  gave  him  a  look  that 
would  split  a  stone  wall.  '  It's  for  the  good 
of  yer  sowl,'  siz  he.  *  Throth,'  siz  I,  '  it  may 
be  for  the  good  of  me  sowl,  but  it's  not  for 
the  good  of  me  crown.  An'  me  good  man/ 
siz  I,  'if  it  was  any  other  place  but  the 
groun'  ye're  in,  maybe  ye  wouldn't  be  so 
handy  with  yer  stick.  For  three  fardins/ 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance   99 

siz  I,  'I  would  take  it  from  ye  an'  give  ye 
tlie  father  an'  mother  of  a  good  soun'  blaich- 
inV  siz  I,  <ye  snivelling  ugly-lookin'  scare- 
crow ye! '  But  all  the  norrations  I  could 
praich  to  him  wasn't  a  bit  of  use;  he'd  just 
turn  up  his  eyes  lake  a  duck  in  thunder,  an' 
no  surer  would  I  thry  to  close  an  eye  agane 
but  he  lit  on  me  with  his  crosshin;  an'  he 
stuck  to  me  all  night,  an'  no  matther  what 
part  of  the  chapel  I  moved  to,  to  get  out  of 
his  way,  he  was  at  me  shouldher  agane  in  a 
jiffey,  with  the  whites  of  his  eyes  thurned 
on  me,  an'  he  waggin'  the  crosshin  at  me 
iviry  time  he  caught  me  eye.  Be  me  socks, 
my  sowl  seemed  to  be  of  far  more  consarn 
to  him  than  his  own.  Well,  in  the  mornin', 
glory  be  to  Providence,  I  had  nallions  on  me 
head  the  size  of  yer  two  fists,  an'  I  swore  that 
if  ivir  I'd  meet  the  natarnal  vagabond  out- 
side of  the  island,  I  would  give  the  poorhouse 
carpenther  a  job  on  his  coffin.  The  sarra 
saize  me,  but  I  had  murdher  in  me  heart! 
an'  little  wondher — for  me  head  wasn't 
sound  for  three-quarthers  of  a  year  afth'er. 

"Howan'ivir,    I    soon    got    into    betther 
humour,  an'  forgot  all  about  me  head,  be- 


10O 


kase  I  got  an  intherduction  to  Nelly  Mori- 
arty,  a  widdy  woman,  with  a  snug  sittin' 
down  not  far  from  me  own  townlan'  at  home. 
Nelly,  as  I  thought — poor  deludhered  fool 
that  I  was! — Nelly  was  purty  good  to  look 
at.  She  had  cheeks  as  red  as  fresh-painted 
cart-wheels,  an'  ivery  other  accomplishment 
accordin'  to  that.  But  there's  no  denyin'  it, 
the  three  cows'  grass  that  I  knew  her  to  have 
made  her  look  a  long  sight  purtier  in  my 
eyes,  an'  the  short  an'  the  long  of  it  was, 
that  afore  I  left  the  island  I  put  me  cometlier 
on  Nelly,  an'  afther  blarneyin'  her  up,  I  puts 
the  word  to  her,  an'  faix  we  settled  it  all  up 
square. 

"Holy  St.  Pathrick!  but  I  was  the  on- 
common  great  ass!  I  thought  we'd  be  as 
happy  as  the  days  were  long;  an*  I  said  to 
meself,  'Barney,  me  boy,'  siz  I,  'yer  jist 
settled  for  life;  and  it's  nivir  a  hand's  thurn 
ye'll  have  to  work  more,  but  jist  put  yer  two 
hands  in  yer  pockets  and  go  about  like  a 
gintleman.  Nelly,  be  coorse/  siz  I,  'with 
her  three  cows'  grass  'ill  support  ye  lake  a 
Prence  o'  Wales,  an'  the  longest  day  in  sum- 
mer ye  can  throw  yerself  on  the  back  of  the 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance      101 

hill — on  the  three  cows'  grass — an'  lie  there 
in  the  sun,  whistlin'  jigs  agane  the  larks,  an' 
snappin'  yer  fingers  at  the  worl'  an'  the 
divil.'  But  och,  it's  little  I  knew  what  was 
'  in  store  for  me.  An'  Nelly  Moriarty,  it's 
mistaken  I  was  in  you  intirely!  An'  I  soon 
foun'  that  out  when  I  married  into  the  fam- 
ily. When  she  fetched  me  home  afther  the 
weddin',  the  sarra  saize  me  if  I  could  a'most 
make  my  way  in  of  the  door,  for  it  was 
crammed  from  the  hearth  to  the  threshel 
(threshold)  with  sisthers,  an'  aunts,  an* 
mothers,  an'  gran'mothers,  an'  the  divil  him- 
self only  knows  how  many  other  faymale  re- 
lations, all  subsistin'  on  the  three  cows' 
grass!  'Be  the  hokey,'  thinks  I  to  meself, 
when  I  seen  the  congregation — cbe  the 
hokey,  I'll  soon  make  a  scattherment  on  the 
nest.'  But  it  was  all  the  other  way  roun'. 
For  the  first  week  I  couldn't  complain  much, 
barrin'  that  I  had  too  many  masters;  but  I 
didn't  grumble  much  at  that  yet,  for  I  flat- 
thered  meself  that  I  would  thurn  the  tables, 
as  soon  as  I'd  get  me  footin'  made,  an'  I'd 
make  them  go  packin'  in  detachmints.  In 
another  week,  I  sayed  to  meself,  if  they  did- 


1O2     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

n't  stop  their  jaw,  I  would  show  them  the 
hole  the  mason  made — which  is  the  door. 
But  movrone,  what  would  ye  have  of  it  but 
poor  Barney's  plans  went  ashaughrin.  Ye 
see,  just  to  oblige  the  wife,  I  used  to  get 
up  first  in  the  mornin'  an'  put  on  the  fire 
for  them,  an'  make  the  wee  drap  of  tay;  an' 
throth  if  there  had  been  a  bit  of  rat-poison 
any  way  handy  I  would  have  sweetened  a 
good  many  of  the  bowls  with  it.  But  in  the 
coorse  of  a  week,  I  thought  I  would  com- 
mence to  show  I  was  masther  of  the  house 
an'  the  three  cows'  grass.  So,  next  mornin', 
when  Nelly  hilloes  in  my  ear, — 

"  t  Barney! '  siz  she. 

"'What? 'siz  I. 

"'Are  ye  awake?'  siz  she. 

"'I'm  not,'  siz  I. 

?' '  Ye're  a  liar,'  siz  she. 

'" '  I'm  as  soun'  asleep  as  a  bull-frog,'  siz  I. 

" '  Come,'  siz  she,  '  none  of  yer  nadiums, 
but  get  up  and  put  on  the  fire.' 

"'I  think  I  hear  you,  ma'am,'  siz  I. 

"'What?'  siz  she,  'ye  lazy,  good-for- 
nothin'  scrub  ye,  do  ye  mane  to  say  ye're 
not  goin'  to  do  as  ye're  bid?' 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance       103 

" '  Throgs,'  siz  I,  '  there'll  be  two  moons 
in  the  sky,  an'  one  in  the  du'ghill,  when  ye 
get  me  to  put  on  a  fire  for  ye.' 

"  Faix  the  word  wasn't  fairly  out  of  me 
mouth,  when,  without  sayin'  dhirum  or 
dharum,  she  ups  with  her  fist  an'  the  next 
minnit  there  was  more  stars  dancin'  afore  me 
eyes  than  ivir  I  seen  on  a  frosty  night — she 
left  me  as  purty  a  black  eye  as  ye'd  maybe 
ax  to  look  at.  Well,  I  didn't  argy  the  quis- 
tion  with  Nelly,  but  got  up  an'  put  on  the 
fire. 

"  Nixt  mornin'  the  praties  was  to  be  dug 
for  the  brakwus. 

"  *  Barney,'  siz  she,  '  throw  the  spade  over 
your  shouldher,  an'  go  out  an'  dig  a  basket 
of  tatties.' 

" '  Why,'  siz  I,  that  way — f or  I  was  just 
what  ye'd  know  afeared — '  why,'  siz  I,  '  whin 
me  mother  was  alive  long  ago  (rest  her 
sowl!),'  siz  I, '  she  used  to  go  out  an'  dig  the 
brakwus  for  me  herself.  Seein'  that  I  was 
always  a  delicate  sort  of  boy,  she  allowed  the 
mornin'  air  didn't  agree  with  me  goin'  out 
on  the  bare  stomach.' 

" '  An'  she  sayed  that? '  siz  Nelly,  raichin' 


104     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

her  han'  for  the  beetle.  'Ye're  a  delicate 
boy,  throth — except  at  male  times — and  we 
must  harden  ye  a  bit/  an*  with  that  she  let 
fly  the  beetle  at  me  head,  as  I  was  makin'  for 
the  door;  an' — do  ye  see  that  mark?"  said 
Barney,  exhibiting  to  me  the  track  of  a 
wound  over  one  eye,  which,  to  my  own 
knowledge,  he  got  in  a  drunken  squabble 
only  a  fortnight  before. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  see  that.  But  I  was  of 
opinion  it  was  Harry  Hudy  gave  you  that 
the  night  you  had  the  little  scrimmage  below 
at  Inver." 

"  Oh,  were  ye  of  that  opinion,  faix? " 
returned  Barney,  slightly  nonplussed. 
"  There's  many  an  opinion  you  have — it's  a 
pity  they're  not  worth  much.  Harry  Hudy 
did  give  me  a  blow  there,  but  then  it  was  the 
ould  wound  he  opened." 

"  Oh,  that  explains  it/'  said  I. 

"  Well,  Nelly  hadn't  to  ax  me  the  second 
time  to  dig  the  tatties.  I  went  out  an'  done 
it  as  soon  as  I  got  meself  gathered  up  again, 
an'  I  went  afterwards  to  Dr.  M'Clintock  an' 
got  thirteen  stitches  in  the  split  she  made  in 
me  head.  Throth,  the  doctor  could  tell  ye, 


ye  could  ram  yer  two  fists  into  the  hole  was 
in  it!  Howan'ivir,  I  seen  there  was  two 
sides  to  the  quistion,  an*  that  Nelly  was 
detarmined  to  be  master  in  her  own 
house. 

"  The  very  nixt  day  there  was  to  be  a 
caman  match  between  two  townlan's,  an'  I 
was  axed  to  be  one  of  the  players.  I  tould 
Nelly  so  the  night  afore.  She  tould  her 
aunts  an'  the  rest  of  the  congregation  that 
they  would  all  go  early  to  see  the  match. 
*  But  plaise  Providence,'  siz  she  to  me,  '  it's 
no  place  for  the  lake  of  you,  that  should  be 
doin'  for  yer  sowl,  instead  of  makin'  a  tom- 
fool of  yerself  with  a  crooked  kippeen;  an' 
ye'll  lie  in  yer  bed  all  day  the  morra! '  I 
was  wise  enough  to  keep  me  tongue  in  me 
jaw,  an'  say  nothin';  but  in  the  mornin',  sure 
enough,  she  packed  one  of  her  gran'-aunts 
away  with  me  breeches,  to  hide  them  in  a 
naybour's,  and  tould  me  lie  in  bed  all  day 
and  say  me  baids.  Hirsilf  an'  the  thribe  of 
divils  she  had  about  her,  thricked  themselves 
out  with  ribbands,  an'  they  stharted  away 
for  the  day's  sport,  for  all  the  world  lake  a 
dhraper's  shop  goin'  out  for  an  airin'.  I  lay 


106     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

up  in  bed  with  no  betther  amusement  than 
countin'  the  rafthers  above  me;  an'  when  I'd 
have  them  all  counted,  I'd  sthart  them  agane 
in  the  new,  jist  to  keep  me  mind  occupied; 
but  I'm  blissed  if  I  didn't  soon  get  tired  of 
the  same  amusement,  an'  I  sayed  to  meself 
that  it  was  scarcely  as  good  as  caman  playin'; 
an'  I  begun  to  get  a  trifle  restless  an'  to 
yawn  lake  as  if  I  wanted  to  swally  the  bed- 
posts; an'  I  sayed,  come  what  might,  come 
what  may,  I  would  get  up  an'  make  meself 
a  dhrop  of  tay.  So  I  jumped  out  of  bed,  an' 
for  want  of  betther  I  hauled  myself  into  a  red 
flannel  petticoat  of  Nelly's — och!  the  sorra 
take  me  if  I'm  tellin'  ye  a  word  of  a  lie — 
an'  but  that  was  the  dear  petticoat  to  me. 
I  dhrew  on  me  coat  an'  waistcoat,  an'  puttin' 
on  me  brogues  an'  socks,  I  thought  to  meself 
that  I  could  manage  to  cuffufle  about 
through  the  house  rightly  for  half  an  hour, 
in  case  no  one  come  in.  But  the  red  petti- 
coat didn't  more  nor  reach  me  knees,  an'  I 
laughed  hearty  at  meself,  the  purty  figure  I 
cut,  but  at  the  same  time  I  was  thrimblin' 
for  'fraid  any  of  the  good  boys  would  catch 
me  in  the  John  Heelan'-man  kilts;  so  I  de- 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance       107 

tannined  to  make  for  the  room  if  I  foun' 
anyone  comin'.  An',  be  the  holy  poker,  it's 
not  long  I  had  to  wait  till  I  heard  the  thramp 
marchin'  up  to  the  dure.  In  the  hoppin' 
of  a  sparrow  I  was  in  the  room,  with  the 
dure  closed. 

"'Barney  Eoddy?  Where  are  ye,  Bar- 
ney?' was  shouted  from  the  kitchen  next 
minnit,  an*  the  heart  jumped  into  me  mouth, 
for  I  foun'  that  it  was  a  party  of  the  caman 
players  who  come  to  see  what  was  keepin* 
me.  I  nivir  let  on  I  heard  them. 

"  *  It's  in  his  bed  asleep  the  lazy  blaguard 
must  be  yet,  when  he  should  be  in  his  place 
in  the  fiel*.  Come,  to  see  if  we  could  waken 
him  up/  says  one  of  them.  Och!  sweet 
seventy-nine!  Here  was  I  in  a  purty  pickle 
intirely!  'My  blessin'  on  you,  Nelly  Mori- 
arty,  an*  if  the  divil  had  his  own/  siz  I  to 
meself,  'it's  not  showing  off  yer  foldherols 
an*  fineries  ye'd  be  in  a  caman  fiel'  the 
day/ 

"'Barney  Eoddy!'  agane  one  of  them 
shouts,  givin'  the  room  dure  a  rattle  that  I 
thought  I'd  have  it  in  a-top  of  me — '  Barney 
Eoddy,  are  ye  there?  or  what's  wrong  with 


108     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

ye  at  all,  at  all,  that  ye're  not  out  with  yer 
caman  an  hour  ago? ' 

"  I  hauls  a  blanket  off  the  bed,  an'  rowlin' 
it  about  me  for  feard  of  the  worst,  I  plants 
me  back  to  the  room  dure,  an'  thinkin'  to 
frighten  them  away,  I  shouts  back, — 

"  *  Och,  there's  nothing  much  wrang  with 
me,  barrin'  that  I'm  in  bed  with  a  touch  of  a 
bed  fever  I  have  cotched.' 

" '  Come  now/  siz  they,  f  none  of  your 
skeegwaggin',  but  open  the  dure  an'  get  out 
here  to  the  caman,  before  we  burst  the  ould 
consarn  in  on  ye/ 

"Ah,  the  sweat  begun  to  come  down  me 
face  in  dhrops  the  size  of  a  pigeon's  egg. 

" '  Can't  yez  go  away  like  Christians/  siz 
I, '  an'  let  a  poor  man  die  in  paice.' 

"But  it  was  no  airthly  use.  They  were 
detarmined  to  have  me,  an'  have  me  they 
would.  So  then  ivery  man  put  their 
shouldhers  to  the  dure,  an'  the  next  minnit 
they  were  in  a-top  of  me.  An'  there  I  stood 
thrimblin'  in  the  middle  of  the  flure,  pullin' 
the  blanket  closer  about  me.  But  as  me  ill 
fortune  would  have  it,  doesn't  one  of  the 
lads — there  was  a  whole  half-a-dozen  of  them 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance       109 

in  it — doesn't  one  of  them  eye  my  brogues 
peepin'  out  from  undher  the  blanket! 

" '  Ah/  siz  he, '  here's  a  go!  Does  Barney 
Koddy  go  to  bed  in  his  brogues!  Ha,  ha! 
he  was  thryin'  to  play  us  a  thrick;  but  we 
know  one  worth  two  of  that.' 

"  *  Ay/  an'  siz  another  blaguard,  '  does  he 
usually  go  to  bed  with  his  waistcoat  an'  coat- 
hamore  on  him?'  pullin'  open  the  blanket 
at  the  breast. 

"'It  must  be  a  new  midicine  for  faver 
patients/  siz  another. 

" *  No,  but  Barney  wants  to  die  an'  be 
berrid  in  his  brogues,  sooner  nor  let  any 
other  lucky  dog  step  into  his  shoes,  an*  get 
the  widow/  siz  another. 

" '  Ay,  an'  her  twinty-nine  aunts/  siz  an- 
other. 

"  Then  they  got  a  hoult  of  the  blanket  to 
pull  it  off  me,  but  I  held  on  to  it  like  grim 
death. 

" '  Niver  mind/  siz  the  ringleader  of  the 
gang,  Archy  Magee,  'when  he's  so  fond  of 
the  blanket  we'll  laive  it  with  him.  Up  with 
him  on  yer  shouldhers,  boys,  just  as  he  is, 
an'  give  him  the  frog's  march  to  the  caman 


no     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

fiel';  then  let  him  pride  out  of  the  good 
colour  of  his  blankets  there,  if  he  likes — he'll 
have  a  repreciative  audience/ 

"An'  before  they  give  me  time  to  open 
me  mouth  they  had  me  on  their  shouldhers, 
wrapped  up  like  a  corp  in  the  blanket,  an' 
away  to  the  caman  fiel'  hot  foot.  They 
joulted  the  sowl  out  of  me  so,  that  purshuant 
to  the  one  of  me  could  get  a  word  out  of  me 
mouth  till  we  got  to  the  fiel',  with  them 
hilloain'  an'  the  crowd  cheerin',  an'  all  the 
worl'  in  commotion  to  see  what  they  had 
rowled  up  in  the  blanket.  Down  they 
planked  me  with  a  hearty  cheer  in  the  middle 
of  all  the  spectathors;  an'  when  they  pulled 
the  blanket  off  me  by  main  force,  och,  holy 
Moses,  but  that  was  the  consthernation!  It 
would  be  hard  to  tell  whether  it  was  them 
or  me  or  the  crowd  was  the  most  thundher- 
struck,  to  see  Barney  Eoddy  come  out  to  play 
caman  in  a  red  flannen  petticoat  that  come 
down  to  his  knees! 

"  I  took  to  me  scrapers,  an'  the  crowd  just 
only  then  got  their  tongues  loosed,  an'  they 
sent  up  a  roar  that  would  make  the  dead 
play  hop-scotch  in  their  coffins,  an*  they 


Barney  Roddy's  Penance       ill 

stharted  afther  poor  Barney,  hilloain'  an* 
shoutin'  an*  laughin';  but,  be  me  boots,  I 
soon  distanced  them,  an'  when  I  got  out  of 
their  sight  I  made  for  the  nearest  house, 
scarin'  all  the  childer  was  in  it  clane  out  of 
the  townlan'.  I  helped  meself  to  the  long 
loan  of  the  best  pair  of  throwsers  I  could 
screenge  up  in  the  house;  an*  shakin'  the  dust 
of  that  counthry  off  me  feet,  I  thurned  an* 
bequaithed  my  left-handed  blessin'  to  Nelly 
Moriarty  an'  her  breed,  seed,  and  jinnyra- 
tion,  and  left  for  iver  a  counthry  where  I 
could  niver  more  hould  up  me  head  to  look 
a  man  sthraight  in  the  face. 

"  An'  be  all  that's  good  there  comes  that 
misardly  scandaverous  villain,  Mickey 
Eoarty,  an'  the  neygar  'ill  be  afther  makin* 
me  hop  for  losin'  me  day  sittin'  here  spinnin* 
lies — I  mane  to  say  tellin'  histhory  passages 
of  me  life  to  you.  I  wish  all  the  crows  in 
Connaught  would  pick  that  rascally  eye  out 
of  his  head,  an*  the  dickens  fly  away  with  the 
remaindher  of  him,  for  it's  him  is  the  bla- 
guard  has  the  bad  tongue. — God  save  ye, 
Misther  Eoarty,  but  this  is  the  purty  evenin' 
intirely,  isn't  it?  " 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg 

"  DINNY  MONAGHAN'S,  of  Keelogs,  that's 
where  we're  bound  for;  and  Hazelton,  my 
boy,  if  you  only  mind  your  points  it's  maybe 
a  sergeant  you'll  be  made  for  this  night's 
work.  The  ould  spite  between  himself  an' 
Brannigan,  you  see,  is  at  work  still — more 
power  to  it — an'  we're  goin'  to  reap  the 
fruits.  Brannigan  come  in  the  whole  way 
to  tell  me  that  they  brewed  last  night,  an' 
a  mighty  big  brewin'  it  was,  too — but  un- 
knownst  to  him:  but  he  says  they  have  one 
of  the  kegs  still  in  the  house,  an'  they're 
goin'  to  have  a  jorum  with  some  invited  nay- 
bours  to-night;  so  we'll  just  give  them  a  bit 
of  a  pleasant  surprise,  an'  deil's  good  cure  to 
Monaghan,  he's  the  biggest  rascal  ever  was 
born  to  stretch  hemp.  The  fox  runs  long, 
Hazel,  my  boy — you  mind  the  ould  sayin'. 
Many's  the  thramp  he  give  us  for  nothin', 


ii6     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

but  we'll  nip  his  career,  the  villain,  to-night, 
an'  pay  him  back  with  compound  inthrust. 
Come,  Murphy,  Short,  Hazelton — are  ye  all 
ready?  Mount  your  big  coats,  for  it's  an 
ugly  raw  night  as  ivir  fell  from  the  heavens. 
Thramp! " 

It  was  Sergeant  M'Golrick,  better  known 
as  "  the  Black  Sergeant,"  that  addressed  his 
subs,  in  the  Ballynapooka  police  station,  situ- 
ated among  the  Donegal  hills,  upon  what 
the  sergeant  very  aptly  described  as  "an 
ugly  raw  night"  in  March,  185 — .  And 
now,  as  the  four  cloaked  and  armed  figures 
disappear  from  the  station  in  the  thick  dark- 
ness of  the  night,  I  will  take  the  story-teller's 
convenient  privilege  of  whisking  my  readers 
direct  to  Dinny  Monaghan's  cottage  in  Kee- 
logs,  whence,  as  we  come  up  to  the  door, 
shouts  of  mirth  and  hilarity  are  heard  to 
ring  out,  as  the  inmates,  all  unconscious  of 
the  impending  danger,  are  commemorating 
the  successful  brewing  of  the  last  "  run  "  of 
mountain  dew.  As  we  glide  in,  and  close 
the  door  upon  the  chill,  foggy  night-air  with- 
out, a  scene  meets  our  view  that  charmingly 
contrasts  with  the  rank  unpleasantness  that 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg     117 

reigns  outdoors.  The  peat  and  fir  piled  high 
upon  the  hearth  shoot  upwards  merry,  play- 
ful, dancing  tongues  of  flame,  that  send  fan- 
ciful shadows  wavering  over  the  soot-stained 
rafters  aloft,  and  appear  like  some  blithe, 
shadowy  beings  looking  down  upon  the  revels 
below,  with  restless  delight.  There  is  no 
other  light  in  the  cottage,  nor  is  any  other 
needed;  the  remotest  corners  of  the  big 
kitchen  are  sufficiently  enlightened  by  the 
blazing  fir,  and  the  merry  faces  of  those  who 
form  a  wide  circle  round  the  big,  open 
hearth  are  lit  up  by  the  red  blaze  in  a  pict- 
uresque manner.  You  see  that  short,  black- 
whiskered  man,  with  the  merry  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  who  is  seated  at  the  upper  corner, 
and  is  now  looking  side-wise  at  the  half-filled 
glass  (with  the  stem  broken  off)  which  he 
holds  betwixt  his  eye  and  the  fire-light — that 
is  no  other  than  the  redoubtable  Dinny  him- 
self, the  renowned  distiller  of  forbidden  liq- 
uors, the  "marked  man"  of  innumerable 
generations  of  peelers,  and  the  inveterate  and 
unflinching  denouncer  and  renouncer  of  Ex- 
cise, Excisemen,  magistrates,  peelers,  and 
police  courts,  with  all  their  pomps  and  vani- 


ii8     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

ties.  But  I  daresay  you  know  Dinny  and 
all  his  characteristics  without  my  descrip- 
tion. Who  does  not?  And  you  must  know, 
too,  most  all  the  "  old,  familiar  faces  "  that 
circle  around — Paddy  Teague  and  Charley 
the  Kooshian,  and  Billy  M'Cahill — a  lad  who 
could  run  a  dhrop  of  the  rale  stuff  as  well 
as  the  next — Murty  Meehan,  Mickey  Ruadh, 
and  the  rest  of  them,  not  forgetting  Mrs. 
Monaghan — Dinny's  plump  little  wife  who 
is  making  herself  so  busy  drawing  from  the 
"ten-gallon"  (that  is  in  the  corner  above 
her,  just  behind  an  unoccupied  cradle),  and 
replenishing  the  glasses  as  they  are  emptied. 
So  we'll  just  turn  our  attention  to  what  they 
are  saying. 

"Why,  Jimmy  M'Groarty,  did  ye  get  the 
parrylitics  in  yer  arm,  or  what's  the  matther 
with  ye?  You  same  to  have  forgot  the  r'yal 
road  to  yer  mouth;  an'  throgs  if  ye  have  it's 
a  bit  change  come  over  yer  mother's  son. 
Tip  that  dhrop  over,  avic,  and  don't  be  mak- 
in'  mouths  at  it;  ye're  nursin'  it  for  the  last 
half-hour  like  a  sick  doll  that  had  caught 
the  maisles.  Sure  ye're  not  afeard  of  it? 
It  can't  be  that  it's  so  ill-tasted;  I  think  I 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg      119 

made  worse  dhrops  in  my  career.  Over  with 
it,  man,  an'  give  us  a  song." 

"  Faix,  Dinny,  you're  right  there — here's 
may  we  niver  dhrink  worse! — Hem!  Dinny, 
ye  did  make  worse.  With  due  respects  I  say 
it.  At  the  same  time  the  worst  iver  you 
made  would  earn  a  repitition  (reputation) 
for  any  honest  distiller.  But  it's  seldom  ye 
were  able  to  coax  anything  out  of  the  worm 
to  aiqual  that.  It's  for  all  the  worl'  like  me 
fren'  there  beyant,  Paddy  Teague's  blarney 
— ha!  ha! — it  goes  down  aisy." 

"  Throth,  Jimmy,"  replies  Paddy,  "  little 
wondher  it  goes  down  aisy  with  ye — ye're 
payin'  nothin'  for  it." 

This  repartee  is  received  with  a  chorus  of 
laughter. 

"  By  the  boots,  Paddy,  an'  it  differs  from 
your  blarney,  then." 

" How  is  that?" 

"  Why,  Paddy  Teague  nivir  blarneyed  a 
man  yet — no  matther  it  was  his  own  mother 
— but  that  man  had  to  pay  through  the  nose 
for  it." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"  Boys,  Jimmy's  gettin'  witty,  wherever 


12O 

he  lamed  it.  It  wasn't  at  school,  anyhow; 
I  know  that,  for  ye  mind,  Jimmy,  the 
masther  turnin'  ye  out  be  the  lug,  an* 
warnin'  ye  niver  to  let  him  see  yer  purty 
face  again." 

"  Ha!  ha!  What  was  he  thurned  out  for, 
Paddy? " 

"  Och,  the  ould  complaint." 

"What  was  that?" 

"  Why,  atin'  too  much!  —  I'm  sorry, 
Jimmy,  avic,  to  fetch  the  flush  to  yer  face, 
but—" 

"  Paddy,  dhaisge,  ye  don't  see  any  flush 
on  my  face." 

"  Throth,  Jimmy,  I  know  we  don't  see  it 
on  yer  face,  but  if  it  was  washed  we  would. 
Ye  see,  boys,  it  was  the  time  the  relief  stir- 
about was  givin'  out  in  the  bad  times,  an* 
Jimmy's  father,  poor  man,  sent  him  to  school 
to  gradyate;  but  Jimmy,  the  villain,  not 
content  with  the  stirabout,  took  to  atin'  the 
numbers  off  the  noggins.*  So  the  masther 
give  him  siveral  public  riprimands,  but  it 
was  all  no  use;  he  had  to  turn  him  out  in 
the  rear.  Indade,  it  went  again  the  mas- 

*  Noggin,  a  wooden  vessel  used  instead  of  a  bowl. 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg      121 

ther's  grain  to  do  it,  as  he  said;  an'  so  long 
as  Jimmy  confined  himself  to  lickin'  the  nog- 
gins it  was  of  coorse  right  enough,  he  said, 
an'  saved  the  expinses  of  washin'  them;  but 
he  had  to  be  responsible  to  the  Gover'ment 
for  the  noggins,  an'  that  bein'  the  case,  he 
said  he  couldn't  permit  a  cannyball  to  re- 
main in  his  school  —  you'll  excuse  me, 
Jimmy,  for  rememb'rin'  this.  Keep  an  eye 
to  Billy  M'Cahill  there,  boys,  for  I'm  afeard 
he'll  go  into  fits,  he's  laughin'  that  hearty 
at  Jimmy." 

"  No,  Paddy  asthore,  I  know  what  Billy 
is  laughin'  at;  he's  thinkin'  of  the  day  your 
gran'uncle  got  invested  with  the  hemp  collar 
— the  day  he  danced  the  double  shuffle  with- 
out a  door  anondher  his  feet,  ye  mind,  an' 
all  bekase  some  of  the  naybour's  sheep  took 
a  likin'  to  go  to  the  fair  with  his  own,  and 
to  get  sould  among  them  be  mistake.  That's 
what  Billy's  laughin'  at.  He's  thinkin',  too, 
how  his  own  gran'father  was  refused  the 
honour  of  pullin'  the  cord  an'  earnin'  a 
couple  of  pounds  in  the  mornin'." 

"Thrue  as  gospel,  Jimmy,"  Billy  inter- 
poses; "but  your  gran'father  was  too  able 


122     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

for  mine  that  mornin'.  He  offered  the 
shariff  to  take  the  job  at  half-price,  an' 
got  it." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughs  Dinny,  with  the 
tears  actually  streaming  down  his  cheeks  in 
thorough  enjoyment  of  the  fun  he  had  un- 
consciously started.  "Ha!  ha!  ha!  Jimmy, 
I'm  afeard  they'd  get  too  many  for  ye,  ha! 
ha!  ha!  Yez  'ill  ha^e  to  give  over  the 
sconsin'*  till  we  have  a  song.  Jimmy,  clear 
yer  throat,  like  a  man,  an'  rattle  us  up  a 
song." 

"  Jimmy  M'Groarty's  song!  Jimmy 
M'Groarty's  song! "  now  resounds  from  all 
sides. 

"  Hould  on  yez! "  interjects  Dinny. 
"Mrs.  Monaghan,  would  ye  be  so  kind  as 
to  replinish  our  empty  glasses  with  a  little 
more  goat's  milk?  We'll  relish  Jimmy's  song 
the  betther  of  it.  That's  you,  thank  ye! 
Now,  boys,  here's  Jimmy's  health,  an'  long 
life  an'  an  aisy  death  to  him!  " 

"  An'  may  I  nivir  die  in  the  air,  ha!  ha! " 
with  a  significant  look  at  Paddy  Teague. 

"  An'  may  he  nivir  pull  the  rope  at  half 

*  Chaffing. 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg      123 

price,  though  it  is  in  the  blood! "  retorts 
Paddy. 

This  is  received  with  another  good- 
humoured  laugh  all  round,  in  which 
Jimmy,  of  course,  takes  part.  The  glasses 
are  emptied  with  a  delightful  rapidity,  lips 
are  smacked,  throats  cleared,  and  Jimmy  in- 
forms them  that  he  is  going  to  give  them 
"  Paddy  Shinaghan's  Cow." 

"  Bully  for  ye,  Jimmy!  " 

Jimmy  immediately  proceeds  to  assume 
the  regular  orthodox  singing  attitude.  A 
man  attempting  to  sing  without  having  a 
voice  would  scarcely  be  less  unfavourably 
received  than  a  man  singing  without  the 
proper  attitude.  So,  in  order  to  acquire 
this  attitude  let  us  attentively  observe 
Jimmy.  He  first  crosses  the  legs,  then  in- 
sinuates his  thumbs  into  his  waistcoat  at 
the  armpits,  leans  well  back  on  his  chair, 
prospects  in  the  roof  for  a  proper  rafter 
at  which  to  pitch  his  voice — this  rafter 
likewise  serves  for  reflectively  swaying  the 
head,  and  making  appropriate  gestures  at, 
as  well  as  (apparently)  reading  the  words 
off — and  having  found  a  fitting  rafter, 


124     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

Jimmy  commences  amid  an  all  but  breath- 
less silence: — 

"  There's  a  man  in  Ardaghey  both  proper  an'  tall; 
Och,  he's  wan  Paddy  Shinaghan,  we  do  him  call, 
For  he  brews  the  cordial  that  does  exceed  all — 
Sure  he  bates  all  the  docthers  aroun'  Dinnygal. 

"  For  if  ye  were  gaspin'  and  ready  to  die, 
The  smell  of  it  fastin'  would  lift  yer  heart  high  ; 
So  hoist  it  up  farther,  quite  near  to  your  nose — 
Sure  an  Inver  man  loves  it  wheriver  he  goes  ! 

"  We  can't  have  a  christ'nin'  without  it  at  all, 
We  dhrink  an'  sing  chorus,  shake  hands  an'  sing  all. 
Your  health  now,  dear  gossip,  as  I  may  you  call — 
Sure  if  this  be's  a  ghost,  that  it  may  meet  us  all  I 

"  Now,  Paddy,  the  rascal — of  late  it  has  been — 
With  steam  an'  hot  wather  he  brewed  his  poteen ; 
He  left  it  in  barrels,  as  I  hear  them  say, 
But  his  cow  took  a  notion  of  dhrinkin'  that  day  I 

"  Wirrasthrue  !  when  the  cow,  sure,  the  notion  did 

take, 
She  first  broke  the  boroch*  and  then  pulled  the 

stake, 
Then  she  dhrunk  at  the  barrels  till  she  dhrunk 

her  fill- 
Holy  Nelly!  she  didn't  leave  much  of  the  still  I" 

"  The  sarra  take  her,  but  she  was  fond  of 
the  sperrits." 
*  The  rope  by  which  a  cow  is  secured  to  the  stake. 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg     125 

"Whisht!   whisht!    BedhaJiosth!    Go  on, 
Jimmy,  ma  l)ouchal!" 

"  But  when  she  got  dhrunk  she  began  to  feel  shame, 
An'  she  says,  '  Paddy  Shinaghan ' — call'n'  him  by 

name — 

'  I'm  as  dhrunk  as  a  beggar,  with  juice  of  the  malt, 
But  Paddy,  avourneen,  it  isn't  my  fault.' 

"  Then  she  hiccoughed  and  staggered  an'  axed  Pat 

to  fight, 
An'  she  threatened  that  through  him  she'd  let  in 

the  daylight ; 
That  his  breed  was  all  cowards  she  tould  him  to 

note, 
An'  dared  him  to  tramp  on  the  tail  of  her  coat. 

"  Next  day  she  woke  up  with  a  bad  broken  horn, 
And  begun  for  to  curse  the  day  she  was  born  ; 
She  cursed  barley,  an'  kilty,  an'  poteen  likewise, 
An'  cursed  all  the  still-tinkers  anondher  the  skies. 

"  She  warned  all  good  cows  to  mind  their  fair  name, 
An'  to  niver  taste  dhrink  that  would  fetch  them 

to  shame, 

An'  she  whispered  to  Paddy,  an'  said  in  his  ear, 
'  Sure  ye  will  not  tell  Oonah  I  went  on  the  beer  ? 

"  '  An'  Paddy,  ahaisge,  if  mercy  you'll  have, 
I'll  bring  ye  each  year  a  fine  heifer  calf, 
For  I  am  right  honest,  though  found  of  a  spree, 
An'  sure,  Paddy,  ma  touched,  ye're  as  fond  of  't 
as  me  ! ' 

"  An'  Paddy  had  marcy  (we  give  him  renown); 
But  when  Oonah  did  milk  her,  her  milk  it  was 
brown. 


'  Poor  cow,  then,'  says  Oonah,   '  it's  yer  heart's 

blood  ye  give, 
For  ye  won't  see  us  wantin'  milk  while  you  do  live.' 

"  Now,  we'll  dhrink  an'  be  merry,  an'  forgiye  the 

cow  ; 
Here's  a  health  to  bould  Shinaghan,  whither  or 

how ; 

Let  us  pray  may  he  never  lose  head,  worm,  or  still 
On  that  sanctified  place  they  call  Keelog's  Hill. 

"  Here's  a  health  to  myself,  an'  God  save  Ireland's 

King! 

Sure  it's  me  makes  the  valleys  of  Keelogs  to  ring, 
It's  me  makes  the  valleys  an'  taverns  to  roar — 
Without  a  dhrop  of  whisky  I  can  sing  no  more  ! " 

"Bravo!  bravo!  Bully,  ye  are!  Hurroo!" 
is  echoed  from  all  quarters. 

"Mrs.  Monaghan — Biddy — fill  his  glass, 
for  he  deserves  it,  in  throgs.  Fill  all  our 
glasses  when  ye're  at  it,  an'  we'll  dhrink 
Paddy  Shinaghan's  health.  Here's  to  him, 
boys — good  fortune." 

"  Throth,  an'  it's  no  mane  song,"  says 
Charley  the  Eooshian,  up-ending  his  glass  to 
see  that  he  has  drunk  it  clean. 

"  Throth  no,  Charley;  nor  he  was  no  mane 
man  made  it  either.  It's  as  purty  a  rhyme 
as  I  came  acrass  for  a  considherable  time," 
says  Paddy  Teague. 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg     127 

"  Thrue  for  ye,  Paddy,"  adds  Jimmy;  "  he 
knew  how  to  make  rhymes,  that  man  did." 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  shupayrior  poet." 

"  Shupayrior?  " 

"  It's  very  few  of  yer  *  come  all  ye's '  ye'd 
get  to  touch  up  to  it." 

"  Thry  that  for  a  thrick." 

"  Ay,  an'  the  cow,  the  poor  baste,  she  acts 
so  nathural  like,  just  for  all  the  worl'  like  a 
daicent  Christian,  axin'  Paddy  to  thramp  on 
the  tail  of  her  coat,  an'  all  that,  an'  then 
repintin'  next  mornin'." 

"Ay;  but,"  interposed  Dinny,  "meself 
wouldn't  like  to  be  a  barrel  of  poteen  in  her 
way  the  nixt  night  again.  Ha!  ha! " 

"  Och,  jist  like  the  Christian  again, 
Dinny,  avourneen." 

"  Ha!  ha!  ha!  " 

"  Dinny,  aliaisge,  take  you  warnin'  from 
that  song,  an'  rair  up  yer  cows  in  the  way 
daicent  cows  should  be  raired.  Don't  lay 
timptation,  in  the  shape  of  a  barrel  of 
poteen,  in  their  way.  There's  a  brinley  cow 
ye  have,  wid  no  eyes  only  one,  an'  that  one 
lookin'  crossways  with  pure  divilment,  an'  I 
wouldn't  thrust  but  she'd  go  on  the  spree 


128     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

in  a  minnit.  She  has  a  rascally  bad  look 
about  her." 

"  Nivir  fear  ye,  Mickey,  agrah,  when  I  hide 
me  poteen  he'll  be  cleverer  than  a  brinley 
cow  that  'ill  fin'  it." 

"  Throth,  then,  the  Black  Sargint,  they 
say,  has  swore  that  he'll  make  ye  pay  the 
piper  yet."  , 

"  Well,  maybe  it  wouldn't  be  the  first  false 
oath  he  swore,  if  we'd  believe  all  people  say. 
Ha!  ha! " 

"  He's  a  born  divil.  There's  no  being  up 
to  his  thricks.  Dark  an'  dhirty  as  the  night 
is,  I  woudn't  at  all  be  very  much  surprised 
to  see  him  openin'  the  door  an*  marchin'  in." 

"  Is  it  him?  He's  measlin'  his  purty  shins 
at  the  barrack  fire,  plottin'  some  new  mis- 
chief with  the  divil.  He'd  think  twicet  be- 
fore he'd  come  out  such  a  night  as  that. 
Biddy,  fill  us  the  glasses  again;  I  have  one 
other  toast  to  give  before  I  let  yez  go,  boys 
— a  toast  that  I'm  sure  yez'll  all  do  honour 
to.  I'm  goin'  to  toast — thank  ye,  Biddy! — 
to  toast  a  man  whose  kindness  or  whose  mor- 
tial  great  cliverness,  or  whose  love  for  all 
poteen-makers,  I  don't  know  which  yez'll 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg     129 

most  admire.  Now,  boys,  yez'll  have  to  take 
off  yer  glasses  cliverly  to  it — here's  'The 
Black  Sargint.' " 

"  Here's  the  Black  Sargint! "  was  shouted 
— it  almost  seemed  echoed — from  the  door, 
which  was  suddenly  burst  open,  and  a  breath- 
less youngster  leaped  into  the  house. 

At  the  sudden  ejaculation  from  the  door, 
every  man  present  experienced  a  shock  that 
fetched  him  instantaneously  to  his  feet,  and 
the  mouths  that  had  just  opened  to  laugh  at 
the  first  mention  of  the  epithet  were  still 
held  open  in  consternation  at  the  second  un- 
looked-for, astounding  shout  of  it. 

"  Here's  the  Black  Sargint! "  the  lad  re- 
peated. "  He's  on  the  top  of  yez.  When  I 
seen  him  an'  his  men  passin'  our  door,  takin* 
the  short  cut  for  here,  I  got  out  the  back 
way,  an'  off  to  warn  ye;  but,  bad  luck  to  him, 
he  cotched  sight  of  me,  an'  he  didn't  let  me 
gain  much  groun'  on  him.  Holy  Moses! 
that's  the  thramp  comin'  roun'  the  house." 

•"  No  way  of  consailin'  the  keg!  "  muttered 
Dinny,  now  as  pale  as  a  ghost.  "  Caught 
at  long  last,  boys! — the  jewel  are  ye,  Biddy! 
— there's  a  chance  for  Dinny,  yet,  boys! 


130     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

There  he  is,  may  the  dickens  take  him,  the 
black  rascal!  Off,  hoys,  with  every  dhrop!  " 

During  the  utterance  of  the  last  few 
sentences,  the  door  is  repeatedly  and  loudly 
battered  at,  and  a  gruff  voice  without  is 
angrily  demanding  admittance.  It  is  no 
other  than  the  dreaded  "Black  Sargint." 
Mrs.  Monaghan,  you  may  observe,  is,  with 
great  coolness,  wrapping  up  and  paying 
much  attention  to  what  appears  to  be  a 
child  in  the  cradle;  though  hitherto,  we  feel 
assured,  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  child 
in  it,  nor  did  she  pay  the  slightest  attention 
to  the  cradle  throughout  the  night.  As 
Dinny  proceeds  to  the  door,  the  men,  having 
emptied  their  glasses,  cast  an  anxious  look 
in  the  direction  of  the  keg,  but  are  amazed 
to  see  no  keg  in  it.  Then,  observing  Mrs. 
Monaghan's  motions,  their  faces  brighten 
somewhat. 

"  Arrah,  be  aisy  would  ye  at  the  door, 
whoiver  ye  are,"  says  Dinny,  as  he  applies 
his  hand  to  undo  the  bolt.  "  Why,  sargint, 
avic,  ye  don't  mane  to  say  its  yerself's  in  it? 
Why,  I  didn't  know  what  sort  of  a 
moroder  (marauder)  was  batin'  the  divil's 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg      131 

own  tindherary  on  the  door  wantin'  to  pull 
down  an  honest  man's  house.  Why,  it's 
yerself's  heartily  welcome — an'  yer  fren's, 
too — one,  two,  three  of  them.  Gintlemen, 
this  is  an  unexpected  plisure.  Now,  who'd 
have  thought  yez  would  take  it  into  yer  head 
to  come  out  for  a  moonlight  sthroll  sich  a 
night!  Mrs.  Monaghan,  agrah,  would  ye 
lave  the  Eooshian  in  charge  of  the  wean  for 
a  minnit,  an'  look  if  ye'd  have  ever  another 
dhrop  in  the  cubbard  for  the  daicent  gintle- 
men?  You  haven't  a  dhrop?  Wirrastlirue, 
I'm  sorry  for  that.  If  yez  had  had  just  hon- 
oured us  by  dhroppin'  in  five  minnits  sooner, 
gintlemen,  I  would  have  give  yez  a  dhrop 
would  warmed  yez  down  to  the  exthraym- 
ities  of  yer  big  toes.  Movrone!  but  I'm  un- 
lucky! " 

"  Come,  Monaghan,  none  of  yer  pala- 
verin';  stan'  aside,  an'  I'll  sarch  the  cubbard, 
an'  a  few  other  places  for  meself.  You've 
had  things  purty  near  long  enough  yer  own 
way;  but  Dinny,  ould  boy,  it's  my  turn  now 
— time  about,  ye  know,  is  fair  play." 

"  Why,  sargint,  darlin',  sure  it's  welcome 
ye  are  to  take  a  peep  into  the  cubbard,  an' 


132     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

pick  an'  choose  for  yerself.  It's  a  kindly 
heart  ye  have.  It's  few  would  lave  their 
warm  fire  sich  a  night,  and  plod  four  mile, 
through  cowld  an'  wet,  mud  and  muck,  to 
their  fren's.  Poor  divils!  yez  are  stharved 
an*  drownded,  that's  what  yez  are.  Push 
forrid  to  the  fire;  don't  feel  backward.  That 
glass,  sargint,  jewel,  is  emp'y,  as  ye  observe. 
Och,  it's  no  good  in  ye  thryin'  any  of  them 
— they're  all  emp'y  as  yer  own  skull." 
"  They  are  emp'y,  I  see,  but—" 
"  Och,  no  '  buts '  at  all  about  it,  sargint, 
avic.  I'll  jus'  sen'  the  youngsther  over  to 
Paddy  Neddy's,  of  the  back  of  the  hill — he's 
makin'  a  runnin'  the  night  (may  he  have 
luck  with  it!),  and  I'll  jist  get  ye  a  dhrop  of 
the  first  shot." 

"  Come,  come,  Monaghan,"  says  the  ser- 
geant, whose  (  dandher '  is  commencing  to 
rise  at  Dinny's  jokes,  "give  us  no  more  of 
your  blarney,  but  tell  me  where's  the  poteen 
you  run  last  night?  " 

"Where's  the  poteen  I  run  last  night?" 

"Yes,  where's  the  poteen  you  run  last 

night?     You  have  a  keg  of  it  in  the  house — 

you  know  you  have;  an*  you'd  betther  not 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg      133 

get  yer  house  pulled  upside  down,  but  hand 
it  out  at  oncet,  for  I'll  have  it  with  me, 
should  I  pull  down  yer  house  to  get  at 
it." 

"Well,  sargint,  avic,  I  daresay  the  aisiest 
way  is  the  best,  so,  if  ye  promise  not  to  sthir 
anything  else  lookin'  for  more — bekase 
there's  no  more  in  it — I'll  tell  ye  where  that 
dhrop  is." 

"  That's  right,  Dinny;  I  see  you  have  some 
sense  afther  all.  Where  is  it?" 

"  Why,  sargint,  it's — av  coorse  ye  promise 
what  I  axed  ye?" 

"  Of  coorse,  of  coorse,  man." 

"  Honour  bright." 

"  Honour  bright,  Dinny." 

"Why  thin,  sargint,  yer  a  daicent  fellow 
as  iver  stepped  in  shoe-leather,  so  I'll  tell  ye. 
It's — if s  in  the  Jceg  !  " 

"  The  divil  take  ye!  I'll  overhaul  yer 
whole  house." 

"  Och,  sargint,  yer  promise!  Honour 
bright,  ye  know." 

"  Go  to  the  deuce!  When  ye  won't  tell 
me  where  the  keg  is,  I'm  goin'  to  find  it. 
Come  on,  men! " 


134     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  Aisy,  sargint,  aisy,  ye  didn't  ax  me  where 
the  keg  was." 
"  Stan'  aside." 

"  So  you'll  pull  down  a  man's  house." 
"  Tell  me,  then,  where  is  the  keg?  " 
"  I  will,  if  you  give  me  that  promise." 
"I'll  give  ye  the  promise;  an'  more  than 
that,  I'll  stick  to  it,  if  ye  tell  me  the  very 
place  the  keg  is." 

"  The  very  place— I'll  tell  ye  it." 
"  All  right,  then,  ye  have  my  promise." 
"  Well,  the  keg,  sargint — the  very  place  the 
keg  is,  is  about  the  poteen!" 

This  is  greeted  by  a  loud  roar  from  all 
sides  of  the  house,  while  Mrs.  Monaghan, 
who  has  been  industriously  rocking  the 
cradle  all  the  time,  protests, — 

"  Billy  M'Cahill,  I  would  thank  ye  to  not 
thramp  over  the  wean.  Yez  have  it  awake, 
yez  have,  with  yer  jokin'  an'  laughin'.  I'll 
thurn  yez  out,  ivery  mother's  sowl,  if  yez 
can't  have  behaviour,"  and  she  stoops  over 
the  cradle  to  soothe  her  charge,  whilst  the 
sergeant  and  his  men  proceed  at  once,  in 
mighty  wrath,  to  search  for  the  keg. 

"  Bad  scran  to  yez,  I  say  again,  an'  will  yez 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg      135 

not  fall  over  the  cradle  an'  smother  the  chile! 
Paddy  Teague,  isn't  it  near  time  ye  wor 
thinkin'  of  goin'  home  to  Norah?  I  think 
it's  purty  near  time  yez  were  all  thrampin', 
an'  leave  a  weeny  bit  of  room  for  the  gintle- 
men  to  get  sarchin'  the  house,"  says  Mrs. 
Monaghan. 

"  Now,  Hazelton,  try  you  the  room  there 
below,  an'  meself  an'  Murphy  'ill  thry  this 
other  room.  Short,  throw  you  your  eye 
about  the  kitchen  here — don't  leave  a  mouse- 
hole  you  won't  sarch.  Hazelton,  my  boy, 
ye  were  long  lookin'  for  the  sthripes — now's 
yer  chance." 

"  Is  it  Misther  Hazelton  get  the  sthripes?" 
from  one  in  the  crowd,  who  are  now  com- 
mencing to  enjoy  the  thing.  "  Throth,  he 
will  get  them — but,  I'm  afeard,  it  'ill  be  on 
the  wrong  place,  ha!  ha! " 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  Now,  Misther  Short,  ye 
boy  ye,  'arn  you  the  sthripes." 

"  Och,  be  the  holy  poker,  he'll  rise  in  the 
worl'  yet,  the  same  man  will." 

"How  high?" 

"Och,  meself  can't  tell  that — it  all  de- 
pends on  the  taste  of  the  hangman." 


136     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  Why  then,  Charley,  I  dar'say  it'll  be  the 
short  dhrop  they'll  thrate  him  to,  no  matther 
who  gets  the  privilege  of  pullin'  the  cord." 

"  I'm  thinkin' — for  the  Lord's  sake,  Mis- 
ther  Short,  take  care  of  yer  prayshus  self,  ye 
were  a'most  down,  there — I'm  thinkin',  boys, 
it'll  be  a  very  short  drop  he'll  get  to-night, 
anyhow." 

"  Throth,  then,  it'd  be  a  shame  to  thrate 
the  daicent  man  so,  afther  him  comin'  so  far 
to  see  yez." 

"  Ay,  an'  on  such  a  divil's  own  wet,  dhirty 
night,  too." 

"Ay,  an'  see  there's  a  river  of  wather 
runnin'  from  him,  poor  man,  that  would 
nearly  wash  a  policeman's  conscience." 

"Ay,  if  he  had  it  about  him.  But  they 
say  that  when  they  go  on  duty  they  have 
got  spayshill  ordhers  from  Dublin  Castle  to 
leave  their  conscience  at  home  behin'  them, 
for  fear  they  would  get  injured." 

"  Or  maybe  lost — I  heerd  tell  of  a  peeler 
losin'  his  conscience  when  on  duty." 

"  The  Lord  help  the  poor  man  f  oun'  it.  I 
wouldn't  like  to  be  in  his  shoes." 

"  Why,  eargint,  avic,  is  it  out  of  the  room 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg     137 

ye  are,  an'  widout  the  keg?  Ye  must  have 
been  crassed  by  a  red-haired  man  to-night — 
ye  have  no  luck." 

"  Faix,  sargint,  darlin',  it's  cowld  an'  wet 
an'  I  dar'say  hungry  an'  thirsty  ye  are.  Pull 
up  to  the  fire  dhaisge,  an'  take  a  shin-heat." 

"  The  poor  man  is  too  fond  of  his  counthry 
an'  it's  workin'  himself  to  death  he  is.  Look, 
he's  disappearin'  inside  his  clothes,  for  all 
the  worl'  like  a  haporth  of  tibbacky  in  a 
sack." 

"  An'  there's  poor  Hazelton,  too,  has  given 
up  the  lower  room;  an'  he's  desarvin'  of  his 
counthry,  if  iver  a  man  was — he's  shiverin' 
like  a  dhrownded  cat,  an'  the  teeth  in  his 
head's  rattlin'  like  a  workhouse  cart.  Cheer 
up,  oul'  fellow,  the  sthripes  is  before  ye  yet." 

"  Oh,  they  are  before  him  maybe  now,  but 
they'll  be  behind  him,  plaise  the  Lord,  some 
day." 

"  Now,  Mickey  Eoe,  don't  be  hard  on  the 
poor  man;  maybe  it's  enough  he's  sufferin' 
this  minnit  in  his  own  heart,  bein'  disap- 
pointed of  the  warm  dhrop  of  the  crathur 
he  was  expectin'." 

"In  his  own  heart!    It's  the  first  time  I 


138     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

iver  heerd  him  accused  of  havin'  one.  Where 
might  he  carry  the  article?  " 

"  In  his  stomach." 

"  Or  in  his  heels?  It  was  in  his  heels  he 
had  it  the  day  that  Peggy  M'Glanaghan 
ducked  him  in  the  du'ghill  pit,  an'  then 
chased  him  for  his  life." 

Whilst  this  running  commentary  was  kept 
up  amid  peals  of  laughter  hy  the  crowd 
around  the  fire,  the  poor  peelers  were  ran- 
sacking and  rummaging  the  house  in  all 
directions,  and  receiving  the  chaff  with  a 
very  bad  grace  indeed;  which  fact,  of  course, 
made  it  still  the  more  enjoyable  to  the  jest- 
ers, and  held  out  the  stronger  incentive  for 
them  to  pepper  the  four  unfortunate  poor 
fellows  still  more  unmercifully.  Mrs.  Mon- 
aghan,  all  the  time,  was  industriously  at- 
tending to  the  slumbers  of  "the  crathur" 
in  the  cradle,  hushing  its  restless  spirit  to 
repose,  and  crooning  a  lullaby  to  aid  the 
good  object.  Occasionally,  too,  she  would 
stoop  down,  say  a  few  soothing  words,  bestow 
a  kiss  apparently  on  its  little  brow,  and  cover 
it  up  snugly.  This  she  would  sometimes 
vary,  by  addressing  a  pettish  remonstrance 


Dinny  Monaghan's  Last  Keg     139 

to  the  men  to  keep  their  tongues  at  rest,  and 
not  disturb  "  the  crathur's  "  slumbers.  She 
sat  between  the  cradle  and  the  fire,  with  her 
deep  shadow  cast  upon  it.  The  police  are 
now  getting  thoroughly  tired  of  their  search, 
the  evidence  of  their  own  eyes,  coupled  with 
the  coolness  and  fearless  tone  of  Dinny  and 
his  party,  inducing  them  to  believe  that 
there  cannot  possibly  be  a  keg  in  the  house 
— whatever  little  they  had  within,  they  must 
have  just  finished  as  they  (the  invaders)  en- 
tered. Of  course  they  could  not  sustain  a 
prosecution  upon  the  strength  of  the  smell 
(or  the  smell  of  the  strength)  of  the  glasses. 
They  are  about  to  depart,  but  Hazelton — 
the  stripes  still  floating  in  his  mind's  eye — 
must  search  the  top  of  the  dresser.  For  this 
purpose,  he  leans  upon  the  shoulder  of  the 
sergeant,  and  stepping  on  the  rim  of  a  tub 
of  dirty  water  which  had  been  used  for  wash- 
ing roots  in,  he  succeeds  in  satisfying  him- 
self that  there  is  no  contraband  material  on 
it,  when,  unluckily,  his  weight  on  the  one 
side  of  the  tub  upsets  it,  and  tumbles  him 
flat  just  in  time  to  receive  its  contents.  In 
the  act  of  falling  he  has  fetched  down  his 


140     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

worthy  sergeant  beneath  him,  who  acts  as  a 
buffer  between  Hazelton  and  the  floor,  and 
comes  in  for  half  the  contents  of  the  tub.  A 
shout  of  laughter  that  seems  almost  to  shake 
the  old  roof  greets  this  ludicrous  denouement, 
and  the  sergeant  and  Hazelton  get  up,  glare 
at  each  other  for  a  moment,  shake  themselves 
like  spaniels,  and  then  take  their  solemn 
departure  in  rather  a  crestfallen  manner,  and 
are  slowly  followed  by  their  two  companions 
with  arms  unconsciously  reversed,  all  fol- 
lowed by  the  jeers  and  hilarious  merriment 
of  the  inmates.  We  will  not  undertake  to 
describe  the  scene  that  followed  inside — the 
praises  loudly  lavished  on  Mrs.  Monaghan, 
the  fondling  "  the  crathur  "  got,  the  mutual 
congratulations  and  exultations,  the  drink- 
ing of  Mrs.  Monaghan's  health,  the  drink- 
ing of  Dinny's  health,  the  drinking  of  the 
company's  health,  the  drinking  of  every- 
body's health — not  neglecting  the  Black 
Sergeant's — and  the  drinking  of  the  dock  an 
dorrish,  and  the  final  dispersion  of  the  com- 
pany, which  ended  the  eventful  night.  It 
was  a  night  to  be  remembered. 


Billy  Baxter 


Billy  Baxter 


Now,  Billy  wasn't  a  religious  man.  That's 
certain.  He  was,  I  fear,  a  wicked,  worldly- 
minded  sinner;  too  frequently  the  cause  of 
distress  and  of  much  spiritual  anxiety  to  the 
righteous  among  his  Cruckagar  neighbours. 
He  had  a  sinful  habit  of  weighing  all  actions, 
even  the  most  edifying  religious  ones,  in  a 
worldly  scale  of  his  own  that  was  the  cause 
of  much  scandal  and  many  heart-burnings 
to  those  good  ones  around  him  whose 
thoughts  ran  upon  the  world  which  has  its 
hither  boundary  in  the  silent  churchyard. 
Within  the  memory  of  our  dogmatic  Oldest 
Inhabitant,  Billy  had  only  been  twice  to  his 
church — one  of  which  occasions  was  at  his 
marriage  to  Jane.  Whenever  the  0.  I.  had 
occasion  to  bear  sorrowful  testimony  to 
Billy's  laxity,  he  invariably  shook  his  head, 
and,  in  half  an  hour  after,  there  were  not 


144     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

three  heads  unshaken  in  all  Cruckagar  for 
"Billy  Baxther,  the  Lord  forgive  him! — no 
better  nor  the  black  haithen! "  When  re- 
monstrated with  on  the  point  Billy  was  un- 
consciously —  quite  innocently  —  satirical: 
"  Sure  where  anondher  the  sun  is  the  good 
of  me  goin'  to  prayer  or  meetin',  that  never, 
since  I  was  no  bigger  nor  me  knee,  was  mas- 
ther  of  a  shoot  of  clothes  that  me  naybour 
'ud  turn  on  his  heel  to  look  at?  "  Billy,  in 
short,  looked  upon  church  as  a  luxury  and 
a  frivolity  intended  for  the  idle  and  the  vain, 
and  altogether  out  of  the  sphere  of  a  hard- 
working poor  man,  who,  willy  nilly,  must 
take  life  seriously.  "By  right/'  as  we  put 
it,  Billy  should  be  a  Presbyterian;  which  is 
to  say  that  his  parents  were  understood  to 
have  belonged  to  that  Church. 

The  Eev.  Ezekiel  M'Cart  was  the  Presby- 
terian pastor  of  Cruckagar.  He  was  a  typi- 
cal minister  of  the  Gospel — pious  as  a  saint, 
learned  as  a  doctor,  simple  as  a  babe,  humble, 
and,  withal,  poor  as  the  poorest  of  his  small 
and  miserably  poor  congregation.  Mr. 
M^Cart,  notwithstanding  an  innate  esthetic 
dread  of  his  free-thinking  parishioner,  con- 


Billy  Baxter  145 

sidered  that  it  would  be  a  shirking  of  his 
duty  if  he  didn't  remonstrate  with  Billy.  He 
did  so,  asking  him  to  quit  the  ways  of  the 
unrighteous  and  come  back  to  his  church 
and  his  spiritual  duties.  For  Mr.  M'Cart 
alone,  of  all  the  clergymen  he  knew,  Billy 
had  a  huge  esteem — the  humility  and  simple- 
mindedness  and  unobtrusive  goodness  of  the 
man  had  secretly  won  him.  So,  with  pro- 
foundest  respect,  he  lent  a  most  attentive 
ear  to  the  good  man's  exhortations,  and  when 
he  had  finished,  Billy  said: 

"  Now,  yer  reverence,  out  of  regards  to  ye, 
I'll  put  me  foot  in  the  fire  if  ye  bid  me  do 
it,  but  I'll  not  go  to  Meetin'.  I  have  been 
there  afore,  expectin'  to  hear  somethin* 
might  do  me  good — for  God  knows  I'm  in 
black  need  of  'mendment! — but  I  heerd  noth- 
in'  only  scouldin'  the  divil.  I  heerd  Misther 
Mahon  praich  wanst,  an'  he  did  nothin'  only 
scould  the  divil.  I  listened  for  two  hours 
to  the  Methodist  praicher,  an'  it  was  bally- 
raggin'  the  divil  from  commencement  to  end. 
Twicet  I  went  to  hear  Father  Dan,  an'  it  was 
pitchin'  in  to  the  poor  divil  with  him,  too, 

as  hot  as  he  could  pepper  him.     That  gave 
10 


146     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

me  my  fill  of  church,  chapel,  an'  meetin*. 
The  divil  may  be  bad — an'  I'm  not  denyin' 
but  he  is — but  the  poor  fellow's  not  gettin' 
half  a  chance.  An'  if  he's  as  bad  as  yez 
make  him  out,  small  blame  to  him,  say  I, 
for  if  he  had  the  spirit  of  a  dog,  he  couldn't 
take  off  yer  hands  all  yez  give  him  from  June 
to  January,  an'  be  otherwise  nor  bad,  an'  the 
worst  of  bad." 

After  that  conversation,  the  good  Mr. 
M'Cart,  shocked  beyond  expression,  let  Billy 
go  his  way  in  peace,  for  he  saw  well  that 
counsel  was  lost  on  him. 

I  said  Mr.  M'Cart  was  poor.  Father  Dan 
was  the  lucky  owner  of  a  jaunting  car  and 
a  mare,  Forgiveness,  both  of  which,  if  neither 
dashing  nor  handsome,  were  useful.  Mr. 
Mahon,  the  rector,  richly  dressed,  invariably 
drove  an  extremely  smart  turn-out.  Even 
the  Methodist  preacher  had  to  confess  to  a 
conveyance  of  a  certain  primitive  and  homely 
character.  Mr.  M'Cart  alone  had  to  trot  the 
length  and  breadth  of  a  tedious  parish  on 
Shanks'  mare,  which  is  to  say,  his  own  two 
feet,  with  the  added  luxury  of  a  stout  stick. 
This  was  not  as  it  should  be.  His  little 


Billy  Baxter  147 

flock,  who  loved  the  man  dearly,  saw  this, 
and  said  it  shouldn't  be.  Nixon  Beattie  and 
Andy  Kitchie  were  appointed  to  take  their 
mites  from  their  poor  brethren  that  their 
pastor  might  be  lifted  out  of  the  mud,  and 
on  horseback  hold  up  his  head  with  his  fel- 
lows. Should  they,  the  collectors  asked 
themselves,  call  upon  the  black  sheep? 
They  would — though  in  all  probability 
they'd  get  small  thanks  and  less  money. 
But  grievously  they  mistook  their  man. 
Billy  was  overjoyed  at  being  enabled  to  con- 
tribute towards  the  well-being  and  the  ease 
of  him  whom  he  so  much  admired.  From 
his  hoard  in  the  old  stocking  in  the  chimney 
— a  hoard  of  silver  and  coppers  amounting 
probably  to  not  less  than  five  and  twenty 
shillings — he  drew  forth  a  shining  white 
shilling,  and  ringing  it  on  the  table  to  them, 
wished  from  his  soul  that  it  had  been  a  sov- 
ereign, "  For,"  Billy  said,  "  we  must  try  to 
buy  him  somethin'  worthy  of  him,  an'  a 
credit  to  us."  He  already  felt  the  pride  of 
part  ownership. 

Ten  days  later  a  deputation,  each  member 
of  which  was,  in  solemn  conclave,  elected  on 


148     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

the  strength  of  his  knowledge  of  horseflesh, 
proceeded  to  the  great  horse  fair  of  The  Moy, 
and  therefrom  led  back,  and  proudly  pre- 
sented to  their  worthy  pastor,  a  comely  and 
very  spirited  young  pony.  The  good  man's 
sincere  protestations  that  he  wished  not  to 
accept  their  too  handsome  present — that  he 
had  not  the  slightest  experience  of  riding 
horseback,  and  that  anyhow  he  thought  he 
should  feel  ever  so  much  more  at  home 
among  them  travelling  to  their  doors  with 
only  his  stick — were  all  of  no  avail.  He  was 
compelled  to  accept  the  gift,  by  none  more 
warmly,  more  noisily,  or  more  prominently 
than  by  Billy  Baxter,  who,  in  his  folded  shirt 
sleeves — for  he  had  left  his  spade  standing 
in  the  ridge — arrived  at  the  Manse  just  as 
Adam  Lindsay,  who  kept  a  grocery,  and  had 
oratorical  ambitions,  was  opening  up  the  sub- 
ject in  a  very  rhetorical,  carefully  prepared 
speech.  For  a  few  minutes  Billy  had  list- 
ened to  Adam  in  a  puzzled  fashion;  he  then 
asked  a  neighbour,  rather  audibly,  "  What 
the  divil  is  Adam  bletherin'  about? "  and 
without  waiting  for  answer,  stepped  in  front 
of  the  orator  and  apologetically  said: 


Billy  Baxter  149 

"Adam,  yer  reverence,  manes  to  say  that 
we've  put  our  heads  together  an'  bought  a 
bit  of  a  baste  for  ye,  an'  there  he  is  " — here 
Billy  gave  the  pony  a  smart  slap  that  caused 
the  beast  to  rear  and  prance  to  the  imminent 
danger  of  the  frightened  assembly — "an* 
may  the  Lord  give  ye  good  of  him!  That's 
all." 

Whilst  the  self-denying  poor  man  was  pro- 
testing, the  pony  was  led  away  and  safely 
stabled.  Billy  hadn't  got  time  to  view  the 
animal  to  his  content  and  put  his  merits  to 
the  test.  He  was  impatient  to  satisfy  him- 
self. Ten  days  later,  as  he  dug  in  his  potato 
field,  he  saw  on  the  road,  which  was  a  few 
fields  distant,  his  minister  ride  by  upon  the 
new  pony;  for  Mr.  M'Cart  had  with  much 
trouble,  mental  and  physical,  mastered  the 
feat  of  keeping  a  fairly  good  seat  in  the 
saddle  as  the  pony  jogged. 

"Hi!  hi!"  Billy  hailed,  motioning  with 
his  finger  that  he  wished  the  minister  to 
await  him. 

He  drew  rein,  wondering  what  Billy 
wanted  with  him.  As  Billy  neared,  he 
found  his  eye  was  upon  the  beast  scrutinis- 


150     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

ingly,  not  on  himself.  When  Billy  came  on 
the  road  he  folded  his  arms  and  surveyed  the 
animal's  points  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur, 
his  head  poised  on  one  side.  He  walked  all 
round  the  horse  so,  at  a  distance  of  a  few 
yards,  breathing  a  subdued  half  whistle  as 
he  did  so.  He  came  forward  and  lifted  one 
of  the  fore  feet,  saying  sternly,  "Hold  up, 
sir!  Hold — up — sirrr!  "  and  having  satis- 
fied himself  that  there  wasn't  a  stone  in  it, 
laid  it  down,  and  retrograded  till  he  had  the 
animal  at  the  proper  angle  of  observation 
again. 

"  Go  ahead! "  he  said  abruptly. 

Mr.  M'Cart  said,  "  Good  day,  Billy!  "  and, 
not  without  some  wonder,  went  ahead. 

"  That'll  do!  "  Billy  said  as  abruptly,  when 
the  pony  had  progressed  about  twenty 
yards. 

Still  puzzled,  the  reverend  rider  obeyed 
Billy's  terse  behest,  and  stopped  short. 

"Head  him  round  an'  come  back.  Off 
you! — off  you!  There — don't  jibe  him! — 
don't  jibe  him! — for  the  sake  of  the  Lord 
don't  jibe  the  baste,  yer  reverence!  Walk 
him  quicker.  That's  you.  Very  good — very 


Billy  Baxter  151 

good,  by  the  powdhers,"  he  remarked  to  him- 
self. 

Taking  him  by  the  head  when  the  pony 
came  up,  he  asked — 

"How  does  he  lead?" 

But  without  waiting  for  an  answer  he  had 
started  off,  hauling  the  pony  to  a  canter, 
which  caused  the  inexperienced  rider  to 
hump  himself  for  safety  and  tightly  press 
his  knees  against  the  beast's  sides.  He  was 
jolted  and  thrown  about,  sometimes  on  the 
saddle,  but  oftener  off  it,  altogether,  alas! 
forming  a  cruelly  undignified  picture.  Sev- 
eral times  he  essayed  to  request  Billy  to  stop, 
but  the  words  were  snapped  in  his  mouth; 
besides,  he  almost  bit  off  his  tongue  in  the 
attempt.  Billy,  observing  his  fright,  tried 
to  encourage  him.  As  he  ran  he  spoke  over 
his  shoulder  in  a  sympathetic  voice.  He  said: 

"  Dammit,  yer  reverence,  don't  be  narvous. 
Don't  be  narvous,  man  alive.  Grip  like  the 
divil,  an'  houl'  on  like  grim  death.  That's 
you,"  he  said,  as  Mr.  M'Cart  just  narrowly 
escaped  coming  down  where  the  horse  was 
not,  "ye'll  soon  be  a  thunderin'  fine  rider 
— a  bully  rider." 


152     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

Then  when  Billy  had  trotted  the  horse  far 
enough  in  that  direction  to  satisfy  himself, 
he  drew  up,  to  the  great  relief  of  the  breath- 
less and  frightened  equestrian.  Billy  turned 
the  pony's  head,  with  the  intention  of  ex- 
perimenting back  again  to  their  starting 
point.  But  the  pony  evidently  had  a  will 
of  his  own,  and  he  now  chose  to  show  it. 
Instead  of  starting  back  with  Billy,  he  threw 
up  his  head  and  pulled  in  the  other  direc- 
tion. 

"Oh,  ye  would,  would  ye?  ye  divil  ye!" 
Billy  said,  as  he  gave  him  a  sounding  whack 
on  the  ribs,  the  good  minister's  left  leg  com- 
ing in  for  share  of  it. 

When  the  pony  had  thrown  up  his  head 
and  sprung  backwards,  Mr.  M'Cart  found 
himself  seated  on  the  animal's  neck,  very 
nearly;  and  when,  in  acknowledgment  of 
Billy's  little  remonstrance  on  his  ribs,  he 
sprang  forward,  the  worthy  man  found  him- 
self sitting  in  uncomfortable  proximity  to 
the  beast's  tail.  The  third  spring  brought 
the  saddle  under  him;  the  horse  had  come 
to  a  dead  pause,  and  for  the  first  time  Mr. 
M'Cart  was  enabled  to  speak. 


Billy  Baxter  153 

"William,  William,  my  dear  friend,"  he 
appealed,  "  do  leave  the  animal  to  himself 
and  he'll  go  like  a  lamb/' 

"Ho-o-o!  Misther  M'Cart,"  Billy  said, 
"ye're  early  beginnin'  to  spoil  the  baste. 
'  Spare  the  rod,'  ye  know.  No,  no,"  and 
Billy  gave  the  beast  another  vigorous  blow 
on  the  ribs;  "no,  no,  we  must  taich  him 
breedin'  or  atween  us  we'll  make  a  purty 
baste  of  him."  Another  whack  and  another 
spring,  and  Mr.  M'Cart  enclasped  the  ani- 
mal's neck  in  a  firm  embrace.  "  No,  no,  we 
must  taich  him  who's  masther,  an*  who's 
man,  we  must.  Houl'  on,  ye  sowl  ye — houP 
on,  Misther  M'Cart;  I'll  soon" — (whack! 
whack!) — "  take  the  tanthrums  out  of  him!  " 

"William!  William!  I  do  appeal  to 
you " 

"  Damn  it,  yer  reverence,  ye  have  no  grit 
in  ye.  Aisy,  ye  divil  ye!  Ha-a-a,  take  that! 
Lord,  man,  ye're  as  'feered  as  fire! " 

"William,  let  me  dismount,  I  beseech 
you! " 

"  Och,  the  divil  a  wan  o*  ye  is  goin*  to 
dismount  the  day,  to  plaise  him.  Take  that, 
ye  conthrairy  schoundril  ye!  I'm  sure,  that's 


154     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

what  would  spoil  him  out  an'  out.  Take  yer 
time  till — (whack!  whack!) — till  I'm  finished 
with  him.  I  houl'  ye  for  the  biggest  button 
on  yer  frock,  he  hasn't  as  many — (whack! 
whack!) — as  many  'nadiums'  in  his  head 
when  I'm  done." 

The  animal  was  now  prancing  around  and 
around  in  a  circle,  Billy  coolly  holding  on, 
endeavouring  to  magnetise  the  animal  by  his 
eye,  but  assisting  the  action  with  a  plentiful 
shower  of  blows,  most  of  which  fell  on  the 
horse,  but  an  occasional  one  upon  Mr. 
M'Cart,  in  which  case  Billy  always  begged 
pardon.  The  hat  had  fallen  forward  over 
the  good  man's  eyes,  and  as  he  could  not 
on  peril  of  his  life  spare  a  hand  to  adjust  it, 
he  was  struggling  in  the  dark. 

"  Ha-a-a!  ye  brute  ye!  Ha-a-a!  Take 
that,  ye  baste!  Ye  have  the  'stiadh'*  in 
ye,  but  I'll  take  it  out  of  ye,  or  my  name 
isn't  Billy.  Houl'  on,  Misther  M'Cart,  an' 
don't  be  freckened — ye're  as  safe  as  if  ye 
were  in  yer  arm-chair." 

It  might  be  so,  still  at  that  instant  Mr. 
M'Cart  would  have  preferred  the  arm-chair. 

*  The  spirit  of  contrariness. 


Billy  Baxter 

At  length  Billy  got  the  "nadiums"  out 
of  the  animal.  He  quieted  down  and  went 
along  slowly  and  quietly  with  his  victor,  who 
experienced  not  a  little  silent  pride.  Though 
he  still  continued  looking  up  at  the  animal 
and  saying  "  Ha-a-a! "  through  his  teeth  to 
him,  more  surely  to  fasten  the  spell  upon 
him.  When  he  had  got  him  to  the  point 
from  which  he  had  started,  Billy  let  him  go, 
and  said: 

"Now,  Mr.  M'Cart,  ye  have  ten  poun*  a 
betther  horse  nor  ye  had  twinty  minutes  ago. 
Ye  want  to  be  firm — ye  want  to  be  firm. 
Throth  I'm  sore  afeerd  yer  reverence  would 
V  spoilt  the  baste  in  less  nor  no  time — spoilt 
him!  We'd  never  get  no  good  o'  him  if  ye'd 
let  him  do  his  own  biddin.'  It  was  a 
sthruggle  to  get  the  animal,  yer  reverence, 
an'  now  we  have  him,  we  must  take  all  the 
care  of  him  we  can.  I  thrust  yer  reverence 
sees  he  gets  a  warm  mash  every  night;  put 
a  thrifle  o'  bran  through  his  corn,  too — 
don't  forget  that;  an*  see  he's  properly 
rubbed  down,  now,  every  time  he  comes  in 
off  a  journey.  Throth,  Misther  M'Cart,  I'm 
afeerd  ye  have  too  many  other  matthers  in 


156     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

yer  head;  an  atween  thinkin'  of  sinners  an' 
sarmons,  ye'll  let  our  little  baste  go  to  the 
deuce.  That'll  not  do — that'll  never  do  at  all, 
at  all.  I'll  be  keepin'  my  eye  out,  now,  back 
an'  forrid,  to  see  that  he's  properly  looked 
afther.  Good  mornin' — good  mornin',  yer 
reverence,  an'  good  luck!  An'  don't  neglect 
our  little  animal,  mind,  whatsomiver  ye  do!  " 

Then  Mr.  M'Cart  rode  forward  in  per- 
plexed meditation,  whilst  Billy  crossed  the 
fields  again  to  resume  his  work,  often  paus- 
ing to  cast  an  anxious  glance  after  the  ani- 
mal, and  thereupon  invariably  ohaking  his 
head,  as  doubtful  of  the  care  which  should 
be  bestowed  upon  his  property  when  he 
wasn't  there  to  see  and  direct. 

Mrs.  MTartlan  was  an  extremely  rich  old 
widow  lady  from  Belfast,  a  pious  Presby- 
terian who  had  come  down  to  Donegal  with 
the  intention  of  finding  out  the  state  of  her 
poorer  co-religionists  there.  Mr.  M'Cart  had 
somewhere  managed  to  borrow  a  phaeton 
into  which  he  received  her  off  the  mail  coach 
at  Donegal.  At  first  the  pony  had  showed 
too  much  mettle  to  suit  her  nerves,  but  he 
soon  quieted  down,  so  that  they  got  along 


Billy  Baxter  157 

smoothly,  till  at  length,  nearing  their  desti- 
nation, Mr.  M'Cart  was  not  a  little  unnerved 
seeing  Billy  Baxter  at  work  in  the  same  field 
from  which  he  had  before  sallied  down  upon 
him.  But  there  was  a  chance  of  getting 
past  unnoticed.  He  prayed  in  his  heart  that 
he  might.  Mrs.  MTartlan,  besides  being 
nervous,  was  cold  and  hungry,  and  was 
(under  these  conditions)  more  or  less  irrit- 
able. Billy  did  not  seem  to  notice  their  ap- 
proach. They  had  already  got  opposite  to 
him — past  him,  and  the  good  man  was 
warmly  congratulating  himself  on  the  nar- 
row escape:  but — 

"Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  there,  I  say! » 
There  was  no  use  pretending  not  to  hear 
him.  Billy  was  bounding  over  ditches  in  his 
eagerness  to  catch  up  to  them,  and,  being 
fleet  of  foot,  he  could  accomplish  this  with- 
out difficulty. 

"Good  morra,  yer  reverence!  Ye're  wel- 
come, good  woman!  Why,  ye  were  near  past 
anonst*  to  me,"  Billy  said  breathlessly  as  he 
got  up,  and  with  the  sleeve  of  his  vest  began 
rubbing  off  a  few  flecks  of  froth  that  lay  on 

*  Unknown. 


158     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

the  animal's  side.  "Ye  didn't  see  me?  I 
was  levellin'  broo's  in  the  fiel'  beyant.  How 
is  the  powny  doin',  yer  reverence?  Did  ye 
do  as  I  was —  Dammit!  man,  what  manes 
this?  "  and  Billy  proceeded  to  unhook  a  curb 
from  the  bit.  "  Tare-an'-ouns!  man,  don't 
do  that — don't  desthroy  the  little  animal's 
mouth.  Or  what  the  divil  put  it  in  yer 
head  anyhow.  There  ye  are,"  and  Billy 
tossed  the  curb  into  the  phaeton.  "Now, 
that's  the  height  o'  nonsense,  yer  reverence, 
an'  can  only  give  our  baste  a  bad  name." 
Here  he  got  down  on  one  knee  in  front  of 
the  horse  and  narrowly  examined  his  fore- 
feet. "  Upon  me  sowl,"  he  said,  "  I  do  be- 
lieve he  forges.  If  he  does,  we're  taken  in. 
Just  start  him  along  a  bit  at  an  aisy  canther 
till  I  see  for  meself,  an* — " 

"But,  William,  my  dear  friend,  this  is  a 
lady  friend,  Mrs.  MTartlan,  and " 

"  Yis,  yis;  sure  I  spoke  to  her,"  Billy  said, 
raising  his  caubeen,  however,  to  acknowledge 
the  introduction.  "How  are  ye,  Mrs. 
MTartlan?  I  suppose  you've  come  over  to 
see  Irelan'?  Ye'll  sec  plenty  o'  hardships 
and  hard  work.  This  is  the  back  o'  God- 


Billy  Baxter  159 

speed,  ma'am.  I'm  plaised  for  the  honour  of 
meetin'  ye,  ma'am. — Now,  yer  reverence,  ye 
sowl  ye,"  he  continued  in  the  tone  of  one 
who  had  dutifully  acquitted  himself  of  a 
task,  "throt  him  out  till  I  obsarve  his 
steps." 

Mr.  M'Cart  resignedly  did  as  he  was 
ordered. 

When  he  had  gone  a  hundred  yards — 

"  That'll  do— that'll  do,"  Billy  said.  "  He 
just  forges  the  slightest  little  taste  imagin- 
able. But  with  care  we'll  br'ak  him  off  it 
— with  care.  Ye'll  have  to  give  him  more 
of  his  head,  yer  reverence — ye'll  have  to  give 
him  more  of  his  head.  If  ye  keep  continu- 
ally naggin'  an'  naggin',  ye'll  dhrive  the 
baste  to  the  deuce.  Lord,  man,  give  him 
rein — give  him  rein,  and  don't  be  afeerd. 
Let  him  go  like  blazes  if  he  wants  to.  Now, 
there's  a  great  dale  in  turnin'  a  baste  round. 
I  should  like  to  see  how  yer  reverence  man- 
ages in  turnin'  him.  Just  take  him  round 
there,  an'  drive  him  back  a  score  o'  steps, 
an'  turn  him  again  " — 

"But,  William,  my  friencl  Mrs.  MTart- 


160     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  Yis,  yis,"  William  said  hastily;  "  ye  made 
the  good  woman  known  to  me  afore.  I  was 
spaikin'  to  Mrs.  MTartlan " 

"  She  feels  it  so  awfully  cold " 

"Yis,  ma'am,  that's  Irelan'  for  ye.  The 
day  we  have  it  as  cowl'  as  charity.  Less  nor 
a  month  ago  it  was  as  hot  as  the  hob  of 
the  Bad-place,  ma'am.  Now,  Misther 
M'Cart " 

"She  feels  both  cold,  William,  and 
hungry,  and  would  like  to  get  to  the  manse 
with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  So,  my  good 
friend,  if  you  would " 

"  Oh!  oh!  Surely!  surely!  Why  didn't  ye 
say  that  afore?  Oh,  to  be  sure,  me  good 
woman — to  be  sure!  I'll  be  sayin'  good  day 
to  ye,  Mrs.  M'Partlan,  an'  take  good  care  o* 
yerself;  but  ye're  in  good  hands,  throth, 
when  ye're  in  Misther  M'Cart's.  Ye'll  never 
know  how  to  be  half  thankful  to  him.  Good 
day  to  ye,  ma'am.  An'  good  day,  Misther 
M'Cart.  Whip  him  up  now,  an'  off  like 
blazes,  both  of  ye.  Good  day,  good  day! " 

Mr.  M'Cart  went  off  sorely  vexed  for  his 
peevish  companion,  who  was  in  high  ill 
humour  over  the  amazing  scene. 


Billy  Baxter  161 

She  was  very  soon  to  see  their  friend  again, 
however.  Next  day  in  the  little  dining-room 
of  the  humble  manse  there  sat  down  to  din- 
ner with  Mr.  M'Cart,  Mrs.  MTartlan  and 
her  favourite  clergyman  from  Belfast,  who 
was  then  in  the  neighbourhood  (a  solemn 
dignitary),  and  a  Presbyterian  Doctor  of 
Divinity  from  an  adjoining  parish.  After 
dinner  had  begun  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  without  awaiting  a  response  the 
door  was  shoved  open,  and,  hat  in  hand, 
bowing  familiarly  to  the  company,  Billy 
Baxter  walked  in.  Billy  was  not  dressed 
for  dinner  either;  he  wore  a  sleeved  waist- 
coat, and  there  was  more  hayseed  and  other 
such  material  upon  his  soft  hat  than  eti- 
quette countenances  in  polite  company.  But 
he  was  nothing  abashed. 

"  Oh,  don't — don't,  gentlemen,  disturb 
yerselves  at  all,  at  all — fire  away!  an'  more 
power  to  yer  elbows.  I  only  just  dhropped 
in,  Misther — How  do  you  do,  ouP  woman? 
Excuse  me  for  not  seein'  ye.  But  there's 
such  a  sight  of  quality  present,  I  didn't  no- 
tice ye  " — 

Here  Billy  drew  himself  a  chair,  and  seat- 
11 


162     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

ing  himself  on  it,  he  reached  his  hat  to  the 
table  and  placed  it  there,  not  far  from  the 
plate  of  the  startled  Mrs.  MTartlan. 

"I  hope,  ma'am,  ye  have  the  appetite 
good?  There's  nothing  like  the  appetite.  I 
have  a  roarin'  one.  I  can  ate  like  a  horse, 
I'll  tell  ye " 

"William,"  said  Mr.  M'Cart,  endeavour- 
ing to  be  as  conciliating  as  possible,  whilst 
he  removed  the  offending  hat  and  placed  it 
elsewhere.  "William,  you  wanted  to  see 
me?" 

"  Oh,  just,  yer  riverence,  I  have  only  half 
a  word  to  say  to  ye.  It's  about  our  little 
powny.  I  wasn't — Is  that  what  ye  call  wine 
now,  that  the  oul'  woman's  dhrinkin'?  It's 
a  dhirty  wash,  ma'am,  no  better  nor  ditch- 
water,  an'  tarnation  bad  for  the  stomach. 
There's  nothin'  better  to  yer  vittils  nor  a 
dhrop  of  prime  whiskey.  But,  sure,  I  need- 
n't tell  you — ye  didn't  live  in  the  same  town 
of  Belfast  for  a  centhury  without  knowin' 
that.  Misther  M'Cart  never  tastes  it  him- 
self, ma'am,  so  ye  must  excuse  him  for  not 
havin'  it  on  the  table.  I'll  tell  ye,  ma'am, 
where " 


Billy  Baxter  163 

"William,  will  you  come  with  me, 
till » 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no,  Misther  M'Cart!  Not 
at  all!  Just  keep  yer  sate,  I  only  want  half 
a  word,  an'  I'll  be  gone." 

"Perhaps  you'll  have  some  wine,  Wil- 
liam?" 

"  No,  yer  reverence,  none  of  yer  slob- wash 
for  me — no  disparagement  to  yer  reverence. 
But,  as  I  was  sayin',  havin'  nothing  much 
else  to  do  this  evening  I  dhropped  over  to 
have  a  peep  at  the  powny.  I  stepped  into 
the  stable,  an'  bad  luck  to  the  wan  o'  me 
but  was  up  to  my  knees  in  it.  Yer  reve- 
rence should  send  that  boy  oj  yours  packin* 
— he  has  yon  stable  in  a  odious  state — there's 
a  '  ho-go '  in  it  would  knock  ye  down.  I 
haven't  got  it  out  of  my  nose  yet.  Earn  it, 
yer  reverence,  it'll  never  do.  Aither  that 
divil's  kid  of  a  boy  ye've  got  'ill  be  dismissed, 
or  else  you  an'  I'll  fall  out.  Then  that 
powny's  not  gettin'  his  mait — I  do  believe 
that.  There  wasn't  as  much  hay  as  ye'd 
wipe  her  nose  with  in  the  hay-rack,  an'  that 
scoundhrill  of  a  lad  o'  yours  down  pitchin' 
buttons  with  all  the  blaguards  of  the  conn- 


164     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

thry  at  the  Cross  Koads,  when  he  should  be 
attendin'  to  the  baste,  an*  givin'  him  some- 
thin'  to  keep  him  from  starvin'.  An',  more- 
over— Lord,  ma'am,  is  there  a  bone  in  yer 
throat?  Clap  her  on  the  back,  Misther 
M'Cart! " 

But  the  contortions  of  Mrs.  MTartlan's 
face  were  only  the  result  of  indignant  amaze- 
ment. 

"An*  besides,  Misther  M'Cart,  I  don't 
b'leeve  that  little  blaguard  is  mixin'  bran 
with  the  baste's  corn  as  I  allowed.  Ye 
should  see  to  it  yerself,  man,  that  the  little 
powny  gets  a  warm  mash  every  night.  Ye 
should  make  it  yer  business  to  go  down  to  the 
kitchen  an' — Misther  M'Cart,  don't  forget 
yer  company;  here's  a  gintleman,  an'  his  plate 
wants  renewin',  I  think — go  down,  I  say,  to 
the  kitchen  yerself,  and  see  that  the  pratie 
skins  an'  the  other  scran  from  the  dinner  is 
mixed  with  it,  an'  rumble  yer  han'  about 
through  it,  too,  to  see  that  there's  no  fish 
bones,  nor  the  like,  in  it;  an'  to  see  that  it's 
the  proper  hait.  Aisy,  good  man,  or  ye'll 
flow  over  that  tumbler  an'  spoil  the  table- 
cloth, an'  that'll  fetch  Shusan  about  yer  lugs 


Billy  Baxter  165 

— faith,  don't  fetch  Shusan  down  on  ye,  or 
she'll  let  ye  know  how  many  bains  make  five. 
That's  all  I've  got  to  say,  yer  reverence. 
Only,  ye'd  betther  see  that  the  off-hind  shoe 
is  fastened  or  ye'll  lose  it.  Send  the  young 
fellow  over  to  the  forge  early  in  the  mornin' 
to  have  it  fastened,  or  if  ye  let  him  go  an- 
other day  he'll  lose  it,  an'  ye'll  fetch  the 
powny  home  limpin'  like  a  cripple.  An* 
don't  forget  to  give  that  youngsther  his 
walkin'  papers,  an'  let  him  go  to  the  divil  to 
look  for  a  masther.  Good  day  to  yez,  gintle- 
men,  an'  much  good  may  it  do  yez!  Good 
day  to  yerself,  oul'  woman!  Ye  can  send 
Shusan — give  her  fourteen  pence,  an'  send 
her,  an'  she  knows  where  to  go,  an'  she'll 
fetch  ye  as  good  a  dhrop  of  the  rale  stuff, 
I'll  stake  me  voracity,  as  ye  were  accustomed 
to  in  Belfast.  Good  day,  ma'am;  good  day! 
Good  day  to  yerself,  Misther  M'Cart!  an'  I 
hope  I  didn't  put  ye  about.  Don't  forget 
the  mash!  Eumble  yer  hand  through  it  yer- 
self, for  fear  of  bones.  Send  the  young  bla- 
guard  packin'  to  the  divil  about  his  business. 
Oh,  don't  be  annoyed,  ma'am,  that's  only 
hayseeds  is  fallin'  off  me  oul'  hat — an'  that's 


166     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

a  sthraw — let  me  take  that  sthraw  out  o'  yer 
wine.  There  ye  are!  Good  day  all!  Good 
day!  I'll  call  roun'  soon  again  till  we  have 
a  chat  about  the  baste,  yer  reverence.  Good 
day,  an'  good  luck! " 

But  Mr.  M'Cart  feared  too  much  another 
interview  with  Billy.  The  poorer  Presby- 
terians in  the  parish  of  Cruckagar  sowed 
their  land  that  spring  with  seed  purchased 
by  the  sale  price  of  the  Subscription  Horse, 
whilst  with  renewed  vigour  and  cheerfulness 
Mr.  M'Cart  again  trudged  his  parish  on  foot, 
more  than  ever  the  idol  of  good-hearted  Billy 
Baxter. 


The  Counsellor 


The  Counsellor 

I  WOTJLD  not  venture  to  say  decidedly 
whether  the  Bummadier  or  Owen  a-Slaivin 
was  the  better  story-teller.  I  feel  quite  in- 
capable of  pronouncing  a  definite  opinion. 
Of  course  we  had  our  men  who  laughed  to 
scorn  the  idea  of  Owen  daring  to  aspire  to 
comparison  at  all;  whilst,  likewise,  we  had 
those  who  swore  by  Owen.  Of  course,  the 
Bummadier,  for  the  benefit  of  his  worship- 
pers, had  placed  on  record  his  fixed  convic- 
tion that  a  lie  never  choked  Owen;  but,  as  a 
set-off  against  this,  I  may  mention  that  Owen 
had  confidently  stated  to  his  intimates  there 
was  not  a  bigger  liar  nor  the  Bummadier 
from  *  *  *  (a  certain  locality  I  hesitate  to 
mention)  to  Guinealand.  I  suppose,  how- 
ever, that  in  story-telling  mere  truth  is  only 
a  matter  of  detail. 

The  style  of  the  Bummadier's  narratives 


170     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

was  bright,  brisk,  and  lively,  and  the  pleas- 
ing shades  they  presented  somehow  with- 
held you  from  examining  too  closely  into 
their  texture. 

In  Owen's  cabin  you  would  need  to  sit 
some  time  before  you  discovered  the  features 
of  your  fellow-rakers:  the  cabin  was  low,  and 
small,  and  smoky:  his  fire,  without  fir,  aimed 
only  at  warmth — hence  a  good  part  of  the 
indistinctness  which  clothed  the  details  of 
the  interior.  Taking  its  tinge  from  the  sur- 
roundings, then,  Owen's  style  was  sombre; 
and  the  more  comical  the  story,  the  more 
solemn  was  his  manner.  An  eavesdropper 
who  knew  not  the  man,  hearing  only  the 
droning  tone  of  Owen,  and  seeing  (through 
the  keyhole)  the  dim  cluster  of  faces  in  the 
dark  room,  might  easily  conclude  that  a 
flesh-creeping  ghost  story  was  in  progress — 
but  he  wouldn?t  eavesdrop  for  long  until  he 
would  be  surprised  out  of  his  conclusion. 

We  would,  on  the  wildest  night  in  winter, 
travel  far  and  fare  ill  to  hear  a  story  of  Dan 
— the  Great  Dan — from  the  most  indifferent 
shanachy.  But,  to  hear  it  from  the  lips  of 
Owen — ! 


The  Counsellor  171 

Och,  the  likes  of  Dan — the  heavens  be  his 
bed! — never  was  known  afore,  nor  will  his 
likes  ever  be  seen  again  as  long  as  there's  a 
bill  on  a  crow.  He  was  the  long-headedest 
man — glory  be  to  God! — ever  stepped  in 
shoe-leather. 

There  was  wanst  and  there  was  a  poor  boy 
up  for  nrardher — he  fell  foul  of  a  friend  in 
a  scrimmage,  and  he  cracked  his  brain-box 
for  him  without  intendin'  it,  an'  the  poor 
man  died.  An'  the  short  an'  the  long  of  it 
was  this  poor  boy  was  taken  up  for  the  mur- 
dher  of  his  Men'  with  no  chance  whatsom- 
iver  for  escape,  bekase  the  evijence  was 
straight  an'  square  that  it  was  him,  an'  none 
other,  give  him  the  dyin'  blow.  An'  that 
maint  hangin',  the  poor  boy  knew  well;  for 
in  them  days  they'd  sthring  ye  up  for  a 
dickens  sight  smaller  matther. 

Well,  lo  and  behould  ye!  it  was  the  morn- 
in*  of  the  thrial,  an'  the  poor  boy,  Heaven 
knows,  was  down-hearted  enough,  an'  his 
friends  all  cryin'  round  him,  thryin'  to  get 
him  to  keep  up  his  spirits,  though  they  knew, 
too,  that  it  was  a  hopeless  case.  All  at  wanst, 
it  sthruck  one  of  his  friends,  an'  says  he, — 


172     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  It's  a  bad  case,  no  doubt,  but  what  harm 
to  consult  Counsellor  O'Connell?" 

Faith,  the  poor  boy  leaped  at  it. 

"  Consult  the  Counsellor,"  says  he,  "  for 
the  Lord's  sake!  It's  small's  the  chance; 
but  still-and-all,  if  there's  a  ghost  of  a  chance 
he'll  see  it." 

No  sooner  sayed  than  done.  They  had 
Dan  on  the  spot  in  three  hops  of  a  sparrow, 
an'  explainin'  the  whole  case  to  him.  When 
Dan  heered  the  outs  and  ins  of  it,  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  It's  a  purty  straight  case,"  says  Dan. 

"Is  there  no  chance  at  all,  at  all,  Coun- 
sellor? "  says  they. 

"  The  Queen's  son,"  says  he,  "  couldn't  be 
saved  on  the  evijence.  In  spite  of  all  the 
Counsellors  in  the  counthry,  an'  if  ye  had 
Sent  Patrick  himself  to  plead  for  ye,  ye'd  be 
sentenced,"  says  he. 

This  was  the  last  blow  for  the  poor  pres'- 
ner,  an'  ill  he  took  it. 

But  all  of  a  suddint,  Dan  looks  him  purty 
hard  in  the  face — 

"  If  I  don't  mistake  me  much,"  says  Dan, 
says  he,  "ye're  a  purty  bould,  fearsomless 
fella?" 


The  Counsellor  173 

*'  Oc h,"  says  the  poor  fella,  says  he,  "  the 
day  was  an'  I  was  all  that,  but  I'm  thinkin' 
that  day  'ill  never  come  again." 

"Well,"  says  Dan,  says  he,  "I  have  con- 
sidhered  the  whole  question  over,  an'  if  ye're 
a  right  boul'  fella,  and  act  right  bouP,  out 
of  nine  hundher  and  ninety-nine  chances 
you  have  just  wan  half  chance  for  yer  life." 

"  What  is  it?  "  says  the  poor  fella,  jumpin' 
at  it. 

"  It's  this  I'm  goin'  to  tell  ye,"  says  Dan. 
"  When  your  case  is  heerd,  the  jury  without 
lavin'  the  box  'ill  return  a  vardict  of  '  Guilty, 
me  Lord! '  an'  his  Lordship  'ill  then  mount 
the  black  cap  for  the  purpose  of  condemnin' 
ye.  You're  at  that  instant  to  have  all  the 
wee  narve  ye  can  about  ye,  an'  bavin'  yer 
brogue  loose  upon  yer  foot,  ye're  to  stoop 
down  an'  get  a  good  grip  of  it  in  yer  fist,  an' 
the  minnit  ye  see  his  Lordship  open  his 
mouth  to  sentence  ye,  take  good  sudden  aim, 
an'  with  all  the  veins  of  yer  heart  give  him 
the  brogue  fair  atween  the  two  eyes — then 
laive  the  rest  to  Providence." 

Thrue  enough,  it  was  a  quare  advice,  an' 
maybe  the  poor  lad  didn't  think  so — but  then 


174     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

it  was  Dan  O'Connell's  advice,  an*  that  put 
another  face  on  matthers.  When  Dan  sayed 
it,  it  was  worth  thryin';  so  he  obsarved  it  to 
the  letther;  an'  when  the  jury  was  bringin' 
in  their  verdict  of  "  Guilty,  me  Lord! "  he 
was  gettin'  his  brogue  loose  on  his  foot;  an' 
when  the  Judge  got  on  the  black  cap,  he  got 
a  good  grip  of  the  brogue,  and  gathered  all 
his  narves,  an'  the  very  next  minnit,  as  the 
Judge  opened  his  mouth  to  give  him  sen- 
tence, he  ups  with  the  brogue,  an'  with  all 
the  powers  of  his  arm  an'  the  veins  of  his 
heart,  let  him  have  the  full  weight  of  the 
brogue  fair  atween  the  two  eyes,  an'  knocks 
him  over  flat.  An'  a  stor!  a  stor!  up  was  the 
Judge  agin  in  an  instant,  an'  him  purple  in 
the  face,  an'  he  guldhers  out, — 

"My  vardict  is  that  the  scoundhril  be 
burned,  beheaded,  and  hung! " 

"  Aisy,  aisy,  I  beg  yer  pardon,  me  Lord," 
says  Dan  O'Connell,  jumpin'  up  in  his  place 
in  the  coort.  "I  beg  yer  Lordship's  par- 
don," says  he,  "  but  I  think  ye  have  thrans- 
gressed  yer  rights,"  and  he  handed  up  to 
the  Judge  the  book  of  the  law  that  he  might 
see  for  himself.  "Ye  can't,"  says  he,  "ac- 


The  Counsellor  175 

cordin*  to  English  law  as  prented  in  that 
book  in  black  and  white,  sentence  a  man  to 
be  both  burned,  beheaded,  an'  hung.  Pres'- 
ner," says  Dan,  then  says  he,  turning  to  the 
dock,  "  pres'ner,  you're  at  liberty  to  go  free." 
An'  the  sorra  his  mouth  could  the  dumb- 
founded Judge  open,  as  the  pres'ner  stepped 
out  of  the  dock  a  free  man,  for  he  saw  Dan 
had  him  squarely. 

Well,  there  was  again,  an'  there  was  a  poor 
man,  who  had  got  some  ha'pence,  an'  he 
speculated  on  a  dhrove  of  cattle,  an'  started 
up  to  Dublin  with  them  to  sell  them,  an* 
make  profit  on  them.  As  me  brave  man  was 
dhrivin'  the  cattle  down  Dublin  sthreet, 
out  comes  a  man  that  kep'  a  tibbacky  shop, 
a  cliver  lad,  an'  he  saw  his  chance,  an'  sez 
he  to  the  man  who  owned  the  cattle, — 

"How  much,"  sez  he,  "will  ye  take  for 
the  best  an'  worst  of  them  cattle  of  yours?  " 

Well,  the  poor  man  looked  at  the  best 
baste  in  the  dhrove,  an'  at  the  worst  baste, 
an'  he  prices  the  two  o'  them  in  his  own 
mind,  an' — 

"  I'll  take  so-much,"  sez  he,  mentionin'  it. 

"  All  right,"  sez  the  other,  "  I'll  give  ye 


176     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

yer  axin'."  An'  into  his  yard  he  had  the 
whole  dhrove  dhriven.  It  was  no  use  what- 
somiver  for  the  poor  man  to  object,  for  the 
other  said  he  bought  the  best  an'  the  worst 
of  the  cattle,  which  was  all  of  the  cattle,  an' 
he  had  witnesses  to  prove  it. 

Away  the  poor  man,  in  spite  of  himself, 
had  to  go  with  the  price  of  barely  two  bastes 
in  his  pocket  in  payment  for  his  whole 
dhrove,  an'  away  he  went  lamentin',  an'  not 
knowing  how  he'd  face  back  to  his  family 
again,  with  their  wee  trifle  of  money  as  good 
as  gone.  That  night  he  put  up  in  a  public- 
house,  an'  the  woman  of  the  house  comin* 
to  larn  the  poor  fella's  lament  axed  him  why 
he  didn't  go  to  the  Counsellor,  an'  have  his 
advice  on  it.  If  it  did  him  no  good,  she 
said,  it  couldn't  anyhow  do  him  no  harm, 
an'  if  there  was  wan  way  in  a  thousand  out 
of  it  Dan  would  soon  find  that  way. 

Right  enough,  the  very  next  mornin'  to 
the  Counsellor  the  poor  man  set  out,  an'  laid 
a  full  programme  of  his  case  afore  Dan,  an* 
axed  him  could  anything  be  done.  No  an- 
swer Dan  give  him,  till  first  he  took  three 
turns  up  an'  down  the  parlour;  and  then, — 


The  Counsellor  177 

"  Yis,"  sez  Dan,  "  somethin*  can  be  done. 
There's  wan  way  you  can  get  back  yer  cattle, 
an'  only  wan." 

"  What's  that?  "  sez  the  man. 

"You'll,"  sez  Dan,  sez  he,  "have  to  cut 
off  the  small  toe  off  yer  left  foot,  an'  go  an' 
bury  it  on  Spek  Island,*  an'  when  you've 
done  that  come  back  to  me." 

As  he  was  diracted  he  done  with  no  loss 
of  time,  an'  back  to  Dan  he  comes  for  fur- 
ther diractions. 

l<  Now,"  sez  Dan,  "  come  along  with  me." 

An'  off  both  of  them  started  an'  never 
halted  till  they  were  in  the  tibbackinist's 
shop.  An'  och,  it  was  welcome  Dan  was 
with  the  lad  behind  the  counther,  who  was 
bowin'  an'  scrapin'  to  him,  an'  thankin'  him 
for  the  honour  he  done  him  comin'  into  his 
shop. 

"  Can  ye  sarve  me,"  sez  Dan,  sez  he,  "  with 
a  little  piece  of  good  tibbacky?  " 

"  I  can,"  sez  the  lad,  "  sarve  yer  honour 
with  as  good  tibbacky  as  ever  ye  put  intil  a 
pipe-head." 

"  An*  have  ye  much  of  it?  "  sez  Dan. 

*  Spike  Island,  in  Cork  Harbour. 
12 


178     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"More  nor  you'd  care  to  buy,"  sez  the 
lad. 

"  Now  what,"  sez  Dan,  sez  he,  "  would  ye 
be  afther  chargin'  me  for  a  sizable  piece — say 
as  much  as  would  reach  from  me  fren's  nose 
to  the  small  toe  of  his  left  foot?  " 

The  lad  laughed  at  the  quality  of  the 
ordher,  but  he  knew  Dan's  odd  ways.  So, 
he  sized  the  man  up  and  sez  he, — 

"  I'll  take  so  much,"  mentionin'  some  few 
shillin's. 

"  It's  a  bargain,"  sez  Dan. 

But  lo  an'  behould  ye!  when  the  lad  went 
to  misure  it  he  finds  the  toe  gone. 

"  There's  no  toe  here! "  sez  he. 

"  I  know  there  isn't,"  sez  Dan.  "  Me 
frend  buried  it  in  Spek  Island  a  few  days 
back.  Ye'll  have  to  carry  on  the  tibbacky 
till  ye  git  there." 

The  lad  laughed  heartily  at  this,  as  bein* 
wan  of  Dan's  best  jokes. 

But  Dan  didn't  laugh  at  all,  at  all. 

But,  "  Troth,  an',"  sez  he,  "  I  hope  ye'll 
be  laughin'  when  ye've  finished  misurin'  me 
out  me  bargain." 

"  Och,  Counsellor,  yer  honour,"  sez  the 


The  Counsellor  179 

lad,  sez  he,  "but  sure  ye  don't  railly  mane 
it?  Isn't  it  jokin'  ye  are." 

"  I  tell  ye  what  it  is,  me  good  man,"  sez 
Dan  back  to  him,  "you  misure  me  out  me 
bargain,  an'  be  very  quick  about  it,  too;  or, 
if  ye  don't,"  sez  he,  "be  all  the  books  in 
Chrissendom,  I  won't  laive  a  slate  on  yer 
roof,  or  a  stick  or  stave  on  yer  primises  I 
won't  sell  out  till  I  have  paid  meself  the 
sum  of  five  thousan'  poun'  for  braich  of  con- 
thract,"  sez  he,  "  an'  here's  me  witness." 

"  It's  ruinated  I  am  entirely,  out  an'  out," 
sez  the  lad. 

"  It's  ruinated  ye  desarve  to  be,"  sez  Dan. 
"  Ye  thought  little  of  ruinatin'  this  poor 
sthranger  here  beside  me,  when  he  come  up 
to  Dublin  with  his  little  grain  of  cattle, 
sthrivin'  to  make  a  support  for  the  wife  an' 
childre.  It's  ruinated  ye  ought  to  be,  ye  low- 
lifed  hang-dog  ye!  Turn  the  daicent  man 
out  his  cattle  this  instant,  in  as  good  condi- 
tion as  you  got  them,  an'  moreover  nor  that, 
laive  with  him  the  price  of  the  two  baistes 
which  ye  paid  him,  as  a  slight  compinsation 
for  the  mintal  throuble  you  have  caused  the 
poor  fella.  Then  I'll  forgive  ye  yer  bargain, 


180     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

on  condition  that,  as  long  as  ye  live  in  Dub- 
lin, ye'll  never  again  thry  to  take  in  the  poor 
an'  the  stranger,  an'  bring  a  bad  name  on  the 
town! " 

An'  with  a  light  heart,  an'  a  heavy  pocket, 
that  poor  man  went  home  to  his  wife  an' 
childre  afther  all;  an'  all  by  raison  of  Dan's 
cuteness. 

But,  I  darsay,  about  the  cliverest  an'  the 
long-headest  thrick  ever  poor  Dan — God  be 
good  till  him! — wrought,  it  was  on  the  land- 
lord of  the  Head  Inns  in  Dublin.  An'  it 
was  this  way. 

It  seems  there  was  a  poor  travellin'  man, 
a  tinker  be  trade,  goin'  about,  an'  whatsom- 
iver  he  had  to  do  with  the  landlord  of  the 
Dublin  Head  Inns,  I  don't  rightly  know,  an' 
can't  tell  for  feerd  to  tell  a  lie;  but  anyhow 
the  landlord  of  the  Head  Inns  both  chaited 
an'  ill-thraited  the  poor  man,  an'  kicked  him 
out  of  his  house;  an'  howsomdiver  it  was  the 
landlord  was  within  his  rights  be  law — for, 
be  the  same  token  it's  many's  the  wrong  to 
the  poor,  the  forlorn,  an'  the  friendless  that 
same  law  covers.  And  when  the  poor  tinker, 
bein'  advised  by  the  Dublin  people,  went  an' 


The  Counsellor  181 

give  in  his  case  to  Dan,  Dan  toul'  him  so  in 
as  many  words. 

"  An'  can  nothing  be  done  to  the  oul'  cur- 
mudgeon, at  all,  at  all?"  says  the  tinker. 

"  Yis,"  Dan  says,  "  something  can  be  done, 
if  ye  put  yerself  in  my  hands." 

So,  off  Dan  takes  the  poor  tinker,  an*  had 
him  shaved  an'  washed,  an'  dhressed  up  in 
wan  of  his  own  best  shoots  of  clothes,  till  he 
looked  the  very  picthur  of  a  grand  gintle- 
man,  an'  then,  givin'  him  his  diractions,  Dan 
sent  him  off.  Straight  he  made  for  the 
Head  Inns,  an'  walkin'  up  to  the  counther  as 
bouP  as  ye  plaise,  he  took  the  landlord's 
curtshy,  an'  give  him  back  a  betther. 

"  Can  ye  commedate  me  with  lodgin's 
here,  landlord,"  says  he — "  bed  an'  boord  for 
the  next  six  months?"  talkin'  the  very 
grandest  English. 

"  Sartinly,  we  can,"  sez  the  landlord. 

"  I've  just  landed  from  Jarminy,"  sez  he, 
"  an'  I  called  on  me  fren'  Counsellor  O'Con- 
nell,  an'  he  recommended  me  here,  as  the 
best  Inns  in  town.  N"ow,"  sez  he,  "  I  want 
to  hire  yer  front  parlour  all  for  meself,  an' 
I  want  ye  to  name  the  tarms  for  the  same, 


182     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

an'  use  of  yer  hall  for  me  parcels  an'  be- 
longin's." 

"  The  front  parlour  all  to  yerself,"  sez  the 
landlord,  "'ill  cost  ye  a  gay  penny,  throth, 
— ye  can't  have  the  front  parlour  of  the 
Head  Inns  in  Dublin  all  to  yerself  for  a  song, 
an'  the  use  of  my  hall  for  yer  belongings — 
it'll  cost  ye,"  sez  he,  "let  me  see — I  can't 
make  it  ye  less  nor  four-an-sixpence  a  week, 
bed  and  boord  to  be  exthra  " — for  ye  know 
in  Dublin  they  don't  know  when  to  stop 
chargin'. 

Well  an'  good,  the  tanns  was  accepted,  an* 
papers  dhrawn  up  on  the  agreement  imme- 
diately, the  Counsellor  himself  comin'  in  to 
put  his  han'  to  the  pen  in  witness  of  it.  Me 
brave  man  gets  in  his  thraps  without  any 
more  delay,  an'  takes  possession  of  the  front 
parlour. 

Next  mornin',  a'most  afore  the  birds  had 
begun  to  call,  the  landlord  was  'wakened  out 
of  his  sleep  by  hearin'  the  divil's  own  tind- 
herary  goin'  on  in  the  front  parlour,  right 
beneath  him. 

"  Paddy! "  he  shouts  to  the  sarvint, 
"  Paddy!  get  up  an'  go  down  an'  see  what 


The  Counsellor  183 

the  dickens  is  the  matther  with  the  chap  in 
the  front  parlour  that  he's  risin'  such  a  row 
at  this  onraisonable  hour  of  the  mornin'l 
Sweet  sarra  saize  him  for  a  vagabone!  or  what 
the  divil  is  he  battherin'  at,  anyhow?" 

Down  Paddy  went,  an'  he  wasn't  there  till 
he  was  back. 

"  Och,  masther! "  says  he,  "  yon  bates 
crayation! " 

"Why?  why?  what  the  norra's  the  mat- 
ther? " 

"  Och,  nobbut  ax  me  what  the  norra  isn't 
the  matther.  It's  open  the  door  I  did,  an* 
looked  in,  an'  there  I  sees  me  brave  lad  that 
hired  yer  front  parlour,  sittin'  on  the  bare 
floore  in  a  shoot  of  clothes  ye  wouldn't 
handle  with  a  pair  of  tongs,  a  sotherin'*  iron 
one  side  of  him,  a  kit  of  tools  the  other  side, 
as  good  as  a  barrow-load  of  ould  sausspans 
an'  tin-cans  scatthered  all  over  yer  parlour; 
an'  the  buck  himself  with  the  anvil  atween 
his  knees,  an'  he  hammerin'  away  for  the 
bare  life,  puttin'  a  bottom  in  a  kettle!  Je- 
roo-salem,  such  a  sight,  masther  dear!  Sez 
I  to  him  when  I  got  my  tongue  with  me,  sez 

*  Soldering. 


184     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

I:  'Me  masther  sends  his  compliments  an' 
wants  to  know  what  are  ye  doin'?'  'An'/ 
sez  the  lad,  raichin'  for  a  skillet  to  begin 
secondly  on,  an'  without  as  much  as  lookin' 
up,  sez  he,  '  tell  yer  masther  that  I  send  my 
compliments,  an'  I'm  doin'  what  it  would  be 
fitther  he  was  doin' — mindin*  me  own  busi- 
ness.'— There's  for  ye,  masther! " 

But  his  masther  didn't  wait  to  hear  the 
end.  of  it  till  he  was  below  himself,  an' 
bouncin'  intil  the  middle  of  the  skillets,  he 
lets  a  tearin'-ouns  out  of  him  an' — 

"What?  What?  What's  this  tarnation 
tomfoolery  about?"  sez  he,  "in  my  front 
parlour?  or  what  do  ye  mane  at  all,  at  all?  " 

But  the  lad  was  whistlin'  like  a  mavis  on 
May-day,  an'  timin'  himself  makin'  a  new 
tin  on  the  anvil,  an'  the  sorra  a  answer  he 
made  him,  but  went  on  as  unconsarned  as 
iver. 

"I  say,  ye  scoundhril  ye,"  sez  the  land- 
lord, kickin'  one  of  the  skillets  clean  out 
through  the  window,  "get  up  out  of  that, 
an'  clear  out  o'  this  yerself  an'  yer  thrumpery 
in  double  quick  time,  afore  I  call  in  the  polis, 
an'  make  them  do  their  duty." 


The  Counsellor  185 

But  the  tinker  got  up,  an'  rowlin'  up  his 
sleeves,  sez  he, — 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  is,  ye  oul'  cur- 
mudgeon ye,  get  away  you  out  of  here,  in 
double  quick  time,  or  I'll  make  these  jintle- 
men" — referrin'  to  his  fists — "do  their  duty; 
and  that  jintleman,"  sez  he,  plantin'  his  left 
fist  under  the  curmudgeon's  nose,  "that 
jintleman,"  sez  he,  "is  named  Six-months-in- 
hospital;  and  this  wan  here,"  plantin'  his 
right  fist  in  the  same  position,  "this  jintle- 
man is  styled  Sudden-daith.  I  was  poor,  an* 
lone,  an'  fren'less  the  other  day,"  sez  he, 
"  an'  ye  oul'  sinner  ye,  ye  took  me  in,  an'  ye 
had  me  abused  an'  ill-traited  bekase  ye  knew 
the  law  was  on  yer  side.  Now  I  have  both 
fren's  an'  law,  an'  I've  writin's  on  this  room 
for  six  months  to  come,  an'  I'm  detarmined 
to  make  what'll  pay  me  boord  out  of  it,  or 
know  the  raison  why.  Out  now,  ye  oul'  im- 
posther!  Out  o'  my  room,  an'  don't  set  yer 
dhirty  foot  in  it,  nor  show  yer  forbid- 
din'  countenance  in  it  till  this  day  six 
months.  Out  now,  ye  oul'  speciment  ye! 
Out! " 

An'  lo  and  behould!  the  next  thing  was, 


l86     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

there  appears  in  the  front  parlour  windy  a 
dhirty  paper  settin'  off, — 

"  To  the  enlightened  Publick  of  Ireland, 
England,  Scotland,  and  the  Isle  of  Man. 
Old  Pottes  mended  as  good  as  ever,  likewise 
repaired.  Likewise  Eettals,  including 
Other  Tin-cans  and  implements  of  a  Like 
nature.  Alsoe  Saucepans  and  Frinepans. 
Not  Forgettin'  Skillets.  P.  S. — You  can 
get  In  new  bottammes  while  you  wate. 
P.  S. — You  are  requestioned  to  Leave  All 
instruments  for  repayr  in  the  hall.  P.  S. 
— TJiis  is  the  cheepest  house  in  town  for 
gettin'  in  A  new  bottam." 

An'  that  was  the  scene  it  bangs  me  to  de- 
scribe! But  the  notice  wasn't  half  an  hour 
up,  with  the  landlord  goin'  about  through 
his  house,  up  an*  down,  ragin'  and  swearin' 
and  kicking  every  wan  come  in  his  way,  till 
half  Dublin  was  round  the  house,  readin'  the 
notice  in  the  parlour  windy,  an'  watchin' 
the  lad  tinkerin'  away  an'  whistlin'  away  in- 
side, an'  wondherin'  what  had  come  over  the 
landlord  of  the  Dublin  Head  Inns  to  let  his 
front  parlour  to  a  tinker.  An'  then  again, 


The  Counsellor  187 

when  the  customers  begun  to  come  roun' — 
for  the  Head  Inns  was  pathronized  by  the 
Lord  Mayor  himself,  an'  all  the  first  genthry 
in  Dublin — when  they  begun  to  come  round 
for  their  mornin'  wet  an*  beared  a  tinker 
tinkerin'  in  the  parlour,  an'  saw  the  hall 
panged  up  with  footless  pots,  an'  bottomless 
skillets,  an  oul'  vithiran  tin-cans — "Why," 
they  says,  "it's  a  low-come-down  day  with 
the  Dublin  Head  Inns,  when  this  is  the 
thrade's  goin'  on  in  it,  an'  it's  betther  for 
us  to  push  on  an'  find  a  daicent  house  to  get 
a  dhrink  in."  An'  afore  night  there  wasn't 
an  oul'  customer  that  hadn't  disarted  an' 
taken  up  their  quarters  elsewhere,  till  the 
landlord  had  to  call  in  Counsellor  O'Connell, 
an'  by  his  advice  go  on  his  two  bare  knees 
to  the  tinker  an'  ax  his  pardon,  an'  his  par- 
don over  again,  an'  promise  to  behave  him- 
self in  future  with  daicency  to  the  sthranger 
an*  the  poor,  an'  give  the  tinker  a  good 
round  penny  to  give  up  the  writin's  he  had 
on  the  front  parlour,  an'  clear  out,  himself 
an'  his  kit,  which  he  did  the  very  next 
mornin'  with  a  fatter  purse  than  when  he 
went  in. 


i88     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

That  was  Dan  for  ye! 

May  the  soft  bed,  an'  the  sweet  wan,  in 
Paradise  be  his  that  nivir  forsook  the  poor 
an'  the  disthressed!  God  Almighty  rest 
him!  an*  Amen!  Amen! 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca 
Fadh 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca 
Fadh* 

HE  was  a  specious  villain,  was  the  Bocca 
Fadh,  but  resourceful,  tactful — clever,  in  the 
narrowest  sense  of  the  word.  Ignorant 
though  he  was,  a  glib  tongue  and  an  auda- 
cious— almost  brazen — self-confidence  made 
him  pass  in  the  eyes  of  the  neighbours  for  a 
sage,  a  long-headed  fellow,  a  knowledgable 
man.  He  was  a  source  of  wonder — some- 
times of  awe — to  the  neighbours  themselves, 
and  a  source  of  terror  to  the  neighbours' 
childre,  particularly  to  those  of  them  who 
were  attending  school.  "Looking  for  his 
share,"  as  he  was  (though  a  stranger  might 
well  be  surprised  to  see  such  a  fine  fellow,  in 
the  prime  of  life,  looking  for  his  living  so), 
he  put  up  where  he  list,  made  himself  at 
home  where  he  would,  and  by  the  fireside  at 
*  Long  Beggarman. 


192     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

night  put  the  youngsters  "through  their 
facin's,"  as  he  termed  it — that  is,  when  he 
had  partaken  heartily  of  the  plentiful  sup- 
per placed  before  him,  and  carefully  placed 
his  wallets  and  his  staff  in  the  chimney  cor- 
ner, and  lit  his  pipe  and  crossed  his  legs,  he 
condescended  to  inquire, — 

"  Well,  Aillie,  how  is  the  childre  advanc- 
ing in  their  curriculum  of  secularity?" 

"Well,  musha,  Jaimie"  (the  Bocca  Fadh 
was  Jaimie),  "  the  norra  wan  of  meself  well 
knows  how  are  they  gettin'  along  at  the  larn- 
in' — for  I  know  that's  what  you  mane,  only 
you  put  it  in  a  polite  way — the  norra  one  of 
me  well  knows  how  they  do  be  gettin'  on; 
but  wee  Gracie  and  Johnnie  they  do  have 
the  eyes  sthrained  out  of  their  head  o'  nights, 
lyin'  down  on  the  h'arthstone,  and  thryin' 
to  spell  by  the  light  of  the  grisiog*  an'  ques- 
kinin'  wan  another  on  their  books.  It's  often 
I  do  be  tellin'  them  that  the  first  night  you'd 
be  with  us  I'd  get  ye  to  try  them  to  see  what 
speed  are  they  comin'.  Maybe  ye'd  be  so 
kind  as  to  put  a  queskin  or  two  on  them, 
just  to  satisfy  yerself,  an'  to  satisfy  me." 
*  Smouldering  peats. 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    193 

"  Yes,  Aillie,  I'll  do  that/'  and  he  looks  in 
the  direction  of  Gracie  and  Johnnie,  who 
have  now  hid  themselves  behind  their 
mother's  skirts  in  mortal  terror  of  the  ordeal. 

"  Come  out,  Gracie,  a  leanbJi;  an'  Johnnie, 
a  theasge,*  come  out,  an'  go  over  there  with 
yer  Spellin'  Book  till  Misther  Haraghey  puts 
queskins  on  yez.  That's  the  childre — hould 
up  yer  wee  heads  now  an'  show  him  how 
much  ye  lamed  since  the  last  time  he  thried 
yez.  That's  the  good  childre;  raich  him  the 
book  now." 

And  the  Bocca  Fadh  takes  the  book  from 
the  trembling  hand  of  little  Gracie  with  the 
cynical  air  of  one  who,  having  taken  all 
knowledge  for  his  province,  feels  naught  but 
the  utmost  repugnance  to  the  touch  of  an 
elementary  spelling-book.  In  one  hand  he 
takes  the  candle  which  Aillie  has  lighted  for 
him,  and  drawing  it  close  to  the  book,  which 
is  held  wrong  side  up  in  the  other,  he  dips 
into  the  book  here  and  there,  muttering 
"  Imph!  "  at  each  dipping,  with  an  easy  non- 
chalance deftly  turning  the  leaves  by  means 
of  a  few  disengaged  fingers,  as  one  who  had 

*  (Pron.  a  haisge)  Treasure. 


194     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

spent  his  life  among  books.  In  a  short  few 
minutes  he  seems  to  have  got  the  gist  of  it, 
and  flings  the  book  from  him  with  a  bored 
air. 

"  Well,  boy,  what  class  are  you  locationed 
in?" 

"  He's  axin'  ye,  Johnnie,  dear,  what  class 
ye're  in,"  the  mother  says  in  a  deferential 
undertone  to  the  dumbfounded  Johnnie. 

"  Please,  sir,  in  the  class  next  the  heap  of 
thurf,"  Johnnie  tremblingly  replies. 

"Imph!  imph!  imph! "  and  the  Bocca 
Fadh  stretches  his  legs  and  knocks  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe  as  if  preparing  for  serious 
work  "  Imph!  and,  my  good  man,  can  you 
or  can  your  sisther  consther  to  me, — 

'In  mudeelis,  in  clanonis; 
Infirtaris,  in  oaknonis'  9"* 

"  Oh,  Misther  Haraghey,"  the  mother 
pleads,  "but  ye  know  they  haven't  raiched 
the  Jarmin  or  the  Latin  yet.  The  chile's 
but  young.  If  God'll  spare  him  to  us,  I 
thrust  he'll  know  them  yet.  Thry  him  on 
somethin'  in  the  Spellin*  Book." 

*  In  mud  eel  is,  in  clay  none  is ; 
In  fir  tar  is,  in  oak  none  is. 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    195" 

"  Haybrew,  Aillie — that  was  a  thrifle  of 
Haybrew.  If  ye  desire  me  to  tackle  him  on 
the  Jarmin,  or  on  any  other  of  the  dead 
langidges,  I'll  be  happy  to  obligate  ye." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Misther  Haraghey,  it's  your- 
self could  do  that  same,  but  just  thry  him 
on  the  Spellin'  Book — himself  and  wee 
Gracie." 

"Very  well,  Aillie,  I'll  start  him  a  small 
queskin  in  the  Coney  Sections  at  your  re- 
quist. — As  I  was  journeyin'  to  Sent  Ives,  I 
met  a  man  with  seven  wives,  an'  every  wife 
had  seven  sacks;  in  every  sack  there  was 
seven  cats,  an'  every  cat  had  seven  kittens — 
now,  kittens,  cats,  sacks,  an'  wives,  how 
many  went  to  the  fair  of  Sent  Ives?  That's 
just  a  small  thrifle,  Aillie,  to  test  the  childre 
in  their  Coney  Sections." 

"  Now,  Johnnie,  a  gradh"*  the  mother 
whispered,  encouragingly. 

"  Ah,  mammy,"  Johnnie  said  grievingly, 
"the  Masther  didn't  put  me  on  to  Coney 
Sections  yet — we're  only  at  '  Stir  the  fire 
and  put  on  more  coal.'" 

"  Imph! "  said  Misther  Haraghey,  as  he 

*  (Pron.  a  gra)  Lore. 


196     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

shook  his  snuff-box  and  helped  himself  lav- 
ishly, without  tendering  a  pinch  to  Aillie. 
"  Let  me  see,  now,  what  ye  know  about  Bo- 
tan-nj — me  good  little  girl," — but  his  man- 
ner and  tone  implied,  my  very  bad  little  girl. 
"  Me  good  little  girl,  can  you  tell  me  whether 
was  it  Julius  Csesar  or  Michael  Augustinian 
Angel-o  that  first  discovered  and  explored 
the  Immortality  of  the  Soul?" 

Gracie  tried  her  very  best  to  be  brave,  but 
the  Bocca  Fadh's  ordnance  was  too  heavy 
for  her.  Her  under  lip  quickly  showed 
signs  of  wavering — it  trembled  perceptibly, 
then  two  big  tears  dimmed  the  bright  blue 
of  her  eyes;  they  started  out — she  gave  way, 
and  beat  a  hasty  retreat  behind  her  mother. 

"A  mhilis,  a  mhilis!"*  said  the  mother, 
taking  little  Gracie  in  her  arms  and  hugging 
her.  "Whisht!  whisht!  a  stor:  sure  Misther 
Haraghey  wouldn't  turn  a  hair  on  me  own 
darlin's  yalla  head.  A  learibh,  a  learibh  mo 
chroidhe!\  don't  cry  like  that,  or  what  are 
you  afeerd  of  at  all,  at  all?  " 

"  Oh,   mammie,   mammie,   I'm  afeerd   of 

*  (Pron.  a  villish)  My  Sweet. 

f  (Pron.  attaniv  mo  chree)  Child  of  my  heart. 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    197 

the  Bocca  Fadh.  He  doesn't  give  queskins 
like  the  Masther.  Mammie,  keep  me 
here." 

Johnnie,  a  better  soldier,  still  firmly  held 
his  ground. 

The  Bocca  Fadh  looked  calmly,  indiffer- 
ently, into  the  fire,  and  remarked  to  it, — 

"I  have  only  two  other  questions  to  de- 
nounciate,  an'  if  ye  answer  me  I'll  have  the 
shupreme  sensation  of  awardin'  yer  mother's 
son  shupairior  markifications.  Both  queskins 
is  in  Divine-ity.  Can  you  dimonsthrate 
or  tell  to  me,  me  fine  young  man,  what 
is  the  connection  between  the  Bloody  Wars 
an'  the  Comics  seen  in  the  sky — refaxred  to 
in  Holy  Writ,  eighteenth  and  nineteenth  of 
Eevolutions,  thirteenth  chapture,  nine-an'- 
twintieth  an'  following  varses?  Ye  cannot? 
Well,  now  for  the  next,  a  simplified  one. 
Can  you  prove  from  the  canine  laws  of  the 
Holy  Eoman  Church  (one  Faith  an'  one  Bap- 
tism) that  the  time  an'  times  an'  half  a  time 
preydicted  by  Columbkille  for  the  landin*  of 
the  Spaniards  at  Dinnygal  must  occur  in  the 
present  reign  of  the  thirteenth  King  an' 
Queen  of  harasy  in  England — Victoria  bein' 


198     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

both  Bang  and  Queen — Queen  of  England 
and  Emperor  of  Indiay?  " 

Brave  as  Johnnie  was,  this  last  assault  was 
too  much  for  him,  he  felt.  So  he,  in  turn, 
struck  his  flag  and  retreated  rapidly  also  to 
the  shelter  of  his  mother's  skirts.  Johnnie 
did  not  cry;  that  would  have  heen  unmanly. 
But  he  could  not  deny  to  himself  that  he  felt 
a  curious  sort  of  choking  in  the  throat,  which 
was  only  relieved  by  the  gentle  stroking  of 
his  white  head  by  his  mother's  disengaged 
hand. 

"Misther  Haraghey,"  the  mother  said, 
"it's  you's  the  long-headed  man.  But  I'm 
afeerd  ye're  too  deep  for  wee  Johnnie  an* 
Gracie,  that  hasn't  got  on  far  with  their 
larnin'  yet." 

"  Oh,  Missis  Gallagher,"  the  Bocca,  feel- 
ing disposed  to  be  generous  under  the  influ- 
ence of  Aillie's  sincere  compliment,  said, 
"they're  two  brave  smart  childre,  God  bliss 
them  to  ye!  Of  course  they  were  a  wee  bit 
nonplushed,  but  on  the  whole  they've  done 
fairly  well — fairly  well.  I  have  great  hopes 
of  them,  though,  of  course,  they  don't  yet 
figure  up  to  my  iday-al.  But  they're  only 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    199 

young — they're  only  young  yet.  An'  to  be 
sure,  too,  any  little  short-comin's  I  have  ex- 
posed is  more  to  be  laid  at  their  Masther's 
door  than  at  their  own.  Atween  yerself  an' 
me,  Missis  Gallagher,  my  opinion  of  Masther 
Whoriskey's  tutorical  abilities  isn't  just  as 
elevated  as  it  might  be.  God  knows  the  op- 
portunities I  got  for  the  cultivation  of  my 
intelligence  was  scanty  enough;  but  thanks 
be  to  Him  for  kind  marcies,  what  little  op- 
portunities I  got  I  made  the  most  of,  which 
made  me  the  scholart  ye  find  me — be  that 
good,  bad,  or  ondifferent,  it's  not  for  me  to 
say." 

"  Well,  /  can  say,  what  all  the  counthry- 
side  says,  that  one  would  walk  long  an'  thra- 
vel  far  an'  not  meet  the  bate  of  the  Bocca 
Fadh." 

"  Oh,  now,  ye  make  me  blush,  Missis  Gal- 
lagher. Ye  do  indeed.  I'm  afeerd  I  must 
deny  the  allegation,  it's  too  much  entirely, 
too  much  to  say  of  a  poor,  neglected,  forlorn, 
orphan  boy,  that " 

"An'  more  nor  that,  Misther  Haraghey, 
let  me  tell  ye  that  the  counthryside  says  it 
was  a  blissin'  from  Providence  ye  didn't  get 


2oo     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

more  opportunities,  for  they  say  that,  like 
every  other  great  jaynis  that  come  afore  ye, 
ye're  brain  would  have  turned  with  the  fair 
dint  of  the  larnin' — ye  would  have  lamed  on 
afore  ye,  they  say,  till  yer  very  head  would 
burst  open  with  it.  As  it  is,  they  say,  they 
don't  know  how  ye  stand  all  ye  do  know. 
There's  for  ye,  now,  if  ye  must  know  the 
truth  of  it! " 

"  Oh,  Missis  Gallagher,  Missis  Gallagher, 
this  is  too  much  entirely — too  much  entirely. 
I'll  not  deny,  indeed,  that  Father  Pat  of  fche 
Cross-roads  an'  Father  Edward,  the  curate, 
both  give  expression  to  themselves  to  the 
same  effect  a  night  they  had  me  in  to  argue 
Divine-ity  an'  Asthronomy  again'  the  two  of 
them.  I'll  not  deny  it,  I  say,  but  as  Father 
Pat  said  about  the  whiskey  they  told  him 
there  was  no  wather  in,  it's  a  resarvation  of 
conscience  with  me  whether  I  believe  it  or 
no.  But  as  I  was  goin'  to  say,  Aillie,  it's  my 
desire  to  come  in  confliction  with  Master 
Whoriskey  where  an'  when  he  pleases,  in  the 
presence  of  witnesses,  an'  I  won't  begrudge 
to  him  all  he'll  be  able  to  crow  over  the 
Bocca  Fadh  when  he's  done  with  him." 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    201 

The  Bocca  Fadh  was  sowing  broadcast 
these  indirect  challenges  to  the  Masther. 
Naturally,  too,  they  were  not  without  some 
effect  in  the  country.  The  neighbours  en- 
countered them  so  frequently  that  a  deal  of 
fireside  debating  on  the  respective  merits  of 
the  Bocca  Fadh  and  the  Masther  was  the 
natural  result.  The  Masther  himself,  who 
at  first  professed  to  treat  with  the  most  sub- 
lime contempt  "  the  lucubrations  of  that  im- 
pecunious vagrant,"  was  at  length  compelled 
to  treat  them  seriously,  and  consented  to 
meet  the  Bocca  Fadh  in  intellectual  combat 
on  the  Sunday  night  before  Christmas  in 
the  Bummadier's.  Over  the  whole  country- 
side the  news  went  like  wildfire,  causing 
much  commotion  and  excited  debate. 
Henceforward,  till  the  great  night  arrived, 
little  else  was  spoken  of,  and  though  it  was 
generally  believed  that  the  Masther  must 
score  a  success,  there  was  a  large  and  grow- 
ing section  who  championed  the  Beggarman, 
and  sturdily  maintained  "that  the  Masther 
would  have  more  nor  a  dish  to  wash"  ere 
he'd  have  done  with  his  opponent.  In  the 
meantime  the  Masther  was  in  a  very  serious 


202     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

mood;  the  Bocca  Fadh  in  his  lightest,  most 
indifferent,  most  off-hand.  The  Masther  had 
everything  to  lose;  the  Bocca  everything  to 
gain. 

The  eventful  night  came.  The  Bumma- 
dier's  was  more  than  usually  packed.  The 
Bocca  Fadh,  with  his  wallet  and  cudgel,  oc- 
cupied the  corner.  He  was  even  more  jaunty 
than  usual.  He  held  deeper  subjects  in  re- 
serve; told  his  gayest  stories,  cracked  his 
driest  jokes,  and  treated  on  any  and  every 
subject  save  the  intellectual  one.  The  Bocca 
had  come  to  dinner;  the  Masther  didn't  ap- 
pear till  the  arranged  time  of  meeting — after 
night.  Despite  very  apparent  efforts  to  the 
contrary,  the  Masther  exhibited  decided 
tokens  of  nervousness  in  his  look  and  man- 
ner. When  he  entered,  a  subdued  and  re- 
spectful murmur  of  salutation  greeted  him. 
To  the  more  prominent  neighbours  present 
he  nodded  thanks,  and  took  his  seat  in  the 
middle  of  the  house.  Then,  his  opportunity 
being  come,  the  Beggarman  rose  in  his  place 
with  a  stiff  grace,  and  making  a  low  bow  to 
the  Masther,  said, — 

"  Benediction  with  thee,  Masther  Whoris- 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    203 

key,  and  I  bid  you  welcome.  But  af ther  his 
nocturanial  paramulation  " — here  he  ad- 
dressed the  company — "  from  his  residential 
habitation  to  Cornelius  Higerty's  abode, 
won't  my  lamed  friend  deign  to  approach  in 
more  contagious  proximity  with  the  confla- 
gration here  provided  for  him  by  the  luxuri- 
ant bounty  of  the  inhabitant?  " 

This  was  the  first  gun  from  the  enemy.  It 
hacl  been,  doubtless,  long  loaded  and  primed; 
but  with  such  promptitude  and  unexpected- 
ness did  it  go  off,  and  with  such  address  was 
it  delivered,  that  it  caused  more  than  mo- 
mentary embarrassment — almost  consterna- 
tion— in  the  opposite,  unalert  camp. 

But  in  a  few  moments  the  Masther  had 
got  to  his  feet  and  returned  the  Bocca's  bow, 
in  an  infinitely  more  graceful  and  stately 
fashion.  He  said,  as  he  approached  to  take 
the  vacant  seat  in  the  opposite  chimney 
corner, — 

"  To  accede  to  the  requisition  of  my  itin- 
erant friend,  the  object  of  our  eleemosynary 
regards,  vouchsafes  me  more  rapturous  de- 
light than  is  within  the  circumscribed  com- 
prehension of  any  bifurcated  individual  be- 


204     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

neath  the  status  of  a  lexicographer  to 
express." 

The  return  fire,  through  delay,  was  not 
quite  as  damaging  as  it  should  have  been. 
The  audience  mentally  scored  one  for  the 
Beggarman. 

The  brazen  rascal,  too,  seeing  the  Mas- 
ther's  nervousness,  saw  therein  material  for 
unfair  advantage.  During  the  delivery  of 
his  next  fire  he  had  the  cool  audacity  to  take 
out  his  pipe,  knock  the  ashes  out  of  it 
against  the  chimney-brace,  suck  it  to  see  if 
it  drew  well — interrupting  his  discourse  for 
that  purpose,  and  proceeded  to  refill  it.  He 
said,  with  the  most  villainous  nonchalance, — 

"Joe-ology,  Al-jay-brsL,  Thrigonomethry, 
Fluxions,  Joe-ography,  Jurie's  Prudence,  the 
Confluxion  of  the  Systems,  Di-sectation, 
Magne-^s-im,  Sequesthrations,  Disquisitions, 
Mathematicians,  or  the  Influential  Carcas- 
ses*— on  which  of  all  is  it  your  requisition 
and  prefermentation  that  I  should  test  your 
eruditional  accomplishments,  sir?" 

The  Beggar  scored  again,  the  scoundrel! 

*  The  Beggar  had  evidently  heard  mention  of  the 
Differential  Calculus. 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    205 

From  the  shaking  of  heads  and  whispering 
with  which  this  one  was  received  around  the 
house,  there  was  no  mistaking  it. 

"  Sir,"  the  Masther  replied  with  a  magnifi- 
cent scorn  that  regained  him  much  of  his 
lost  ground,  "  from  my  intellectual  altitudes 
I  gaze  down  with  the  most  inexpressible  con- 
tempt alloyed  with  disdainful  commiseration 
on  the  pitiable  aggregation  and  accumulation 
of  unmitigated  balderdash  with  which  you 
have  the  audacious  temerity  to  address  me. 
Sir,  of  all  subjects  in  the  educational  cur- 
riculum of  this  or  any  other  country  in  the 
universe,  from  the  Alpha  to  the  Omega  of 
the  same,  select  and  indicate  one,  and  I  shall 
instantaneously  proceed  to  expose  your  unut- 
terable ignorance  to  the  gaze  of  a  commiser- 
ating public." 

"Very  well,  then,  on  the  Confluxions  of 
the  Systems  I'll  take  you." 

"  Avaunt,  sirra!  avaunt!  "  and  the  Masther 
waived  his  hand  disdainfully. 

"Having  maximum  magnitudes  granted, 
how  would  you  calculate  for  me  the  number 
of  jags  in  a  cart  of  whins*  in  accordance 
*  Furze. 


206     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

with  the  fundamental  principles  of  Joe- 
ology?" 

They  were  coming  to  close  quarters. 

"  Sir,  if  I  buy  a  horse  at  one  farthing  for 
the  first  nail  in  his  shoe,  a  halfpenny  for  the 
second,  one  penny  for  the  third,  and  hence 
doubling  till  the  thirty-second  nail;  how 
much  will  defray  the  gross  total  cost  of  the 
quadruped?  " 

But  the  Beggarman  without  a  moment's 
delay  came  along  with  his  answer;  and  it  was 
this- wise, — 

"Adduce  from  Harry  Stotle's*  Common- 
taries  the  proof  regardin'  who  made  Hiram's 
breeches." 

"My  peregrinating  itinerant,  here's  one  to 
stop  your  mouth: — 

'  It's  down  in  yon  meadow  I  tethered  my  ass, 
Where  lie  fruitful  acres  well  stored  with  grass  ; 
How  long  must  the  cord  be  when — ' " 

"  Maybe  it's  on  the  Influential  Carcasses 

ye'd  soonest  be  taken.     Here's  at  ye,  then — 

Are  you  prepared  to  paragonically  dimon- 

sthrate  to  this  company  how  many  yards  of 

*  Aristotle's. 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    207 

buttermilk  would  make  a  nightcap  for  Bin- 
ban  mountain?" 

"  'How  long  must  the,  cord  be  when  feeding  all  round, 
He  won't  graze  less  or  more  than  two  acres  of 
ground  t ' 

— Elucidate  me  that,  sirra! " 

w  Being  given  the  sacrificial  contain- 
ments/' the  Bocca  said,  by  way  of  elucida- 
tion, "  can  you  arrogate  for  my  information 
how  many  faddoms  of  wind  went  through 
the  chancel  windy  of  Dinnygal  Abbey  last 
Janiary?" 

("Faix,"  the  breathless  neighbours  re- 
marked, "the  Bocca  Fadh  is  givin'  it  hard 
to  the  poor  Masther.") 

"  Sirra,"  the  Masther  said,  "  can  you  en- 
lighten us  who  wrote  Caesar's  Com-ment- 
aries?" 

"  Now  for  a  thrifle  out  of  Asthronomy. 
Taking  our  start  from  the  paralysis  of  the 
hypothenuse,  can  you  calculate,  enmerate, 
an*  dimonsthrate  the  number  of  bottles  of 
smoke  in  a  cart  of  wet  turf?  " 

("  Troth,  the  same  Bocca  has  more  in  his 
head  nor  a  comb  would  take  out.  The  poor 
Masther's  goin'  to  the  back-han'.") 


208     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  Sir,  who  or  what  was  Cornelius  Nepos? 
and  exemplify  and  illustrate  for  us  the 
Copernican  System  of  the  Universe,  and  like- 
wise say  who  was  the  probable  author  of  the 
Odes  of  Horace  (Smith's  Translation)/* 

"I  shall  now  proceed  to  take  you,"  said 
the  Beggarman  calmly,  as  he  wiped  the  stem 
of  the  pipe  upon  his  sleeve,  and  tendered  it 
across  the  fire  to  his  opponent — "I  shall 
now,  I  announce,  proceed  to  take  you  upon 
Biblical  Commentation  an'  the  elements  of 
Hydrophobia.  Devolve  the  south  an'  cir- 
cular sides  of  a  three-year-old  whinstone,  an' 
proove  the  same  by  the  kibe  an'  square  roots 
of  Joe-omethry  an'  Thrigonomethry." 

"  Sir,  I  hereby  challenge  and  defy  you  to 
Square  the  Circle,  discover  the  Unknown 
Quantity,  and  elucidate  the  theory  of  Per- 
petual Motion." 

("The  Masther's  queskins  is  wonderfully, 
clivir,  no  doubts,  but  they  haven't  in  them 
the  same  grit's  in  the  Bocca's.") 

"  Can  ye  say  for  a  sartinty  whom  was 
Jinisis's*  eldermost  uncle  on  the  mother's 

*  The  Bocca  is  in  all  probability  referring  to  Gen- 
esis. 


The  Masther  and  the  Bocca  Fadh    209 

side,  and  prove  the  same  by  the  totality  of 
Fluxions?" 

"  Ye  can't  do  '  Good  morrow  to  ye,  naybour, 
with  yer  twenty  geese — '" 

"A  small  little  queskin  now  to  testify 
your  knowledge  of  horty-culture.  How 
many  steps  was  in  Jacob's  laddher,  calcu- 
lated according  to  the  mean  solar  distance 
of  the  equinoctials?  " 

Yes,  the  Masther  was  no  match  for  this 
charlatan — he  was  not  possessed  of  enough 
systematic  ignorance  blent  with  a  good  blend 
of  villainy. 

He  was  somewhat  tardy  in  coming  on  with 
his  reply. 

"Do  you  adhere  to  the  austere  doctrines 
promulgated  by  the  learned  Socrates,  or  the 
more  sensuous  ones  of  Epicurus?  Give  your 
reasons,  and  likewise  state  your  opinion  of 
the  respective  merits  of  Sophocles  and  Da- 
rius. From  whom  is  the  quotation  '  a  rara 
avis  in  terra '  taken,  and  give  a  literal  trans- 
lation?" 

"  Another  simple  one  out  of  Genufluxions. 
Prove  from  the  Scriptures,  Ould  an'  New 
Testymints,  that  Tobias's  dog  had  a  tail,  an' 
14 


2io     Through  tae  Turf  Smoke 

propound  the  paragorical  projection  of  the 
same." 

But  the  Masther  was  wiping  the  perspira- 
tion from  his  hrow — the  mental  tension  was 
at  its  utmost.  He  replied  not.  The  Bocca 
Fadh  seized  the  opportunity,  and  rising  to 
his  feet  delivered  himself  of  his  carefully 
prepared  coup  de  grace.  He  said,  with  his 
grandest,  most  rascally  assumptive  air, — 

"  Let  no  charlatanical  fop  dare  dispute  the 
atrocious  voracity  of  my  achromatical  quali- 
fications, for  I  am  a  heterogeneous  cosmopo- 
lite, perambulating  and  differentiating  intri- 
cate problematics  throughout  the  extension 
of  the  different  localities  which  I  have  mes- 
merized into  a  conglomerated  catastrophe! " 

And  the  scoundrel  sat  down  in  the  lap  of 
victory! 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four 

AFTER  his  love  for  God,  and  his  love  for 
his  flock,  Father  Dan  loved  music.  Good 
music,  that  is;  for  he  confessed  he  never 
could  listen  to  a  scoundrel  murdering  music, 
but  his  hand  would  be  itching  to  give  him 
a  dressing  with  his  blackthorn  staff. 

Anyhow,  once,  on  an  old  Lammas  Day, 
there  had  been  a  wedding  above  in  Cora- 
meen-lusk,  a  son  of  Ned  Baccagh's  with 
Winny  Neil  Mhor,  and  the  father  and  mother 
of  a  good  spree  it  was.  Nothing  less  than 
four  fiddlers.  Three  houses  under  the  party. 
Whiskey  go  leor,  and  meat  and  drink  to  all 
comers.  As  was  only  to  be  expected,  a  spree 
on  such  a  liberal  scale  had  been  prolonged 
into  the  next  afternoon.  Coming  on  even- 
ing the  four  fiddlers  found  themselves  at  the 
Knockagar  Cross — the  parting  of  their  ways. 
As  was  also  only  to  be  expected  of  fiddlers 


214     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

coming  from  a  feast,  their  manner  was  effu- 
sive. It  was  distressing  to  part.  They  al- 
ternately cuffed  and  kissed  each  other,  sang 
and  scolded.  Finally,  I  regret  to  say,  they 
were  surrounded  by  two  peelers,  who  in  the 
Queen's  name  arrested  them  as  disturbers  of 
the  peace  of  the  realm,  and  marched  them 
straight — or  at  least  as  straight  as  the  pecu- 
liar circumstances  would  permit — to  Mr. 
McClane's.  This  they  accomplished  by 
means  of  their  clever  tactical  skill.  For 
they  seized  upon  the  fiddles,  not  the  men; 
and  where  their  fiddles  went  there  would 
the  fiddlers  follow.  Arrived  at  Mr.  Mc- 
Clane's, and  inveigled  into  his  office,  they 
were  arraigned  and  solemnly  charged  that 
they,  Michael  Scanlan,  of  Meenauish-beg, 
in  the  parish  of  Killymard;  Thaddeus  Mc- 
Dermott,  of  Meenauish-more,  in  the  parish 
aforesaid,  and  Nail  O'Byrne  and  Peter 
Throwers,  both  of  Throwerstbwn,  in  the 
parish  of  Drimholm,  and  County  of  Done- 
gal, were  found  drunk  and  behaving  in  a 
riotous  and  disorderly  manner  at  the  cross 
roads  of  Knockagar,  in  the  parish  of  Inver, 
to  the  great  alarm,  annoyance,  and  distress 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four  215 

of  Her  Gracious  Majesty's  most  well-beloved 
and  dutiful  subjects  in  the  townland  and 
parish  aforementioned — or  words  to  that 
effect.  Though  the  cold  fact — apart  from 
its  legal  aspect — was  that  not  a  lone  one  of 
the  aforesaid  dutiful  and  well-beloved  sub- 
jects was  alarmed,  annoyed,  and  distressed, 
or  would  be  alarmed,  annoyed,  and  dis- 
tressed, or  anything  but  highly  entertained, 
had  the  four  devoted  disciples  of  Orpheus 
prolonged  their  orgie  till  Christmas  Day 
dawned  on  them.  But  law  is  law,  and,  of 
course,  fact  has  got  no  raison  d'etre  within 
its  province. 

Just  then  Father  Dan  jogged  up  to  the 
magistrate's  door,  on  Forgiveness.  The 
name  of  Father  Dan's  old  gray  mare,  his 
faithful  servant,  day  out,  day  in,  in  fair 
and  in  foul  weather,  midday  and  midnight 
for  close  upon  thirty  years  was  Forgiveness — 
whereby  hangeth  a  tale  not  strictly  within  the 
scope  of  this  history.  Father  Dan  jogged  eas- 
ily up  on  Forgiveness,  and  letting  himself  off, 
he  entered,  while  Forgiveness  went  to  graze 
soberly  by  the  wayside.  Going  in  and  find- 
ing four  men  there  arraigned,  and  hearing 


216     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

the  charge,  he  said,  "  Oh!  these  scoundrels 
from  Killymard  and  Drimholm  coming  into 
my  parish  to  disgrace  it  and  to  bring  a  bad 
name  on  it  with  their  drinking  and  their 
squabbling  like  a  parcel  of  thravelling  tink- 
ers— ye  must  make  an  example  of  them,  Mr. 
McClane — make  an  example  of  them!  A 
month  in  jail  with  a  hammer  in  their  fist 
from  cock-crow  till  bedtime  will  be  a  big 
help  to  their  manners,  and  to  the  manners 
of  every  other  villain  of  them  coming  into 
my  parish  for  the  time  to  come.  A  month 
in  jail  with  hard  labour  and  half  rations — 
nothing  less  will  be  of  any  use,  Mr. 
McClane! " 

Then  the  spoils  of  war,  the  four  fiddles, 
caught  Father  Dan's  eye. 

"What?  Fiddles!  Fiddlers?  Ye  but- 
cher music,  hey,  do  ye?  Yer  villainies 
wouldn't  be  complete  without  that." 

And  he  insisted  on  each  displaying  his 
skill  (or  else),  on  his  instrument.  And,  as 
it  proved,  they  were  four  of  as  sweet  fiddlers 
as  tirrled  a  bow  in  the  two  baronies.  And 
they  completely  comethered  good  Father  Dan, 
whose  inherent  respect  for  good  musicians 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four  217 

asserted  itself,  so  that  he  said  they  were 
good  men  gone  wrong,  gravely  pointed  out 
to  them  the  enormity  of  their  crime,  evoked 
from  them  a  hearty  promise  of  amendment, 
showed  Mr.  McClane  that,  after  all,  he  be- 
lieved the  nominal  fine  of  a  shilling  each  and 
costs  would,  on  the  occasion  of  this  their 
first  offence,  appease  the  offended  dignity  of 
the  law,  out  of  his  own  pocket  paid  the 
money  down  on  the  nail,  and  in  front  of 
himself  and  Forgiveness  marched  them  to 
his  house,  "  till  he'd  give  the  creatures  a  pick 
to  ate,  and  a  wash  and  a  brush  and  a  heat 
of  the  fire,  and  put  the  poor  fellows  on  their 
legs,  and  pack  them  for  home." 

And  in  spite  of  all  old  Kitty  Byrne's 
grumbling — Kitty  had  been  his  housekeeper 
since  first  he  had  a  house  to  keep — and  Kitty 
was  the  only  tyrant,  other  than  his  boy  Bar- 
ney, whom  Father  Dan  feared — despite  all 
Kitty's  grumblings  against  the  house  being 
turned  into  a  cow  market,  Father  Dan  in- 
sisted on  their  washing  and  brushing,  and 
on  Kitty's  serving  up  at  the  kitchen-table 
a  plentiful  meal — of  which,  to  tell  truth, 
they  were  sadly  in  need.  And  despite  all 


218     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

Kitty's  acrid  personalities  about  making  her 
house  the  randyvoo  for  all  the  thramp  fid- 
dlers and  thramp  fluters  from  end  to  wind 
of  the  county,  with  many  other  equally 
pleasant  remarks,  and  many  very  dismal  pro- 
phecies of  where  all  this  blather-skitin'  was 
going  to  end,  her  four  guests  made  a  right 
hearty  meal,  for  which  they  thanked  God 
when  they  had  done;  and  then  thanked 
Father  Dan;  and  finally,  to  Kitty's  utter  ex- 
asperation, thanked  her — and  wished  her  a 
long  ljfe  and  a  sweet  temper. 

Finding  they  had  finished  their  meal, 
Father  Dan  ushered  them  into  his  own  little 
parlour,  he  going  in  front,  laden  with  the 
four  fiddles  and  with  as  many  bitter  re- 
proaches as  Kitty  could  contrive  to  pile  on 
him  ere  he  got  all  in  and  the  door  closed  in 
the  enemy's  face.  Then  Father  Dan  seated 
the  four  and  put  his  fiddle  into  the  hands  of 
each,  and  took  down  his  own  fiddle  (at  which 
he  was  no  mean  adept)  from  over  the  mantel, 
and  proceeded  to  get  it  into  tune,  keenly  re- 
joicing all  the  while  in  the  prospect  of  a 
long,  pleasant  evening. 

But  it  took  his  guests  an  extraordinarily 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four  219 

long  time  to  tune  theirs,  and  divers  myste- 
rious looks  and  winks  passed  between  them 
which  Father  Dan  was  neither  slow  to  receive 
nor  to  interpret.  The  short  and  the  long  of 
it  was  that  the  fiddlers  wanted  what  they 
themselves  would  have  styled  elbow  grease, 
but  which  in  the  plain  man's  dictionary  is 
spelled  poteen.  Musical  preparations  were 
then  temporarily  suspended  while  Father 
Dan  produced  a  quart  bottle  three-quarters 
filled,  out  of  which  after  a  bit  of  very  serious 
and  very  paternal  advice  against  the  abuse 
of  whiskey,  to  which  the  four  lent  a  filial  ear, 
he  gave  them  a  glass  apiece,  which  made 
their  eyes  kindle;  and  they  invoked  blessings 
on  his  head,  informed  him  that  it  put  a  new 
BOW!  in  them,  and  in  token  thereof  gave  a 
particularly  lively  jig  by  way  of  flourish,  the 
manner  of  which  promised  well  for  an  enjoy- 
able night. 

Then  Father  Dan  got  himself  seated,  and 
all  five  of  them  gave  "The  Blackbird"  so 
excellently  as  to  draw  the  tears  to  the  good 
man's  eyes.  Then  there  was  less  or  more 
friction,  for  whilst  Father  Dan  wanted  some 
of  Moore,  his  friends  were  loud  for  jigs  and 


22O     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

strathspeys,  favourites  of  their  own.  They 
compromised  on  "  An  Sluadh  Sidhe." 
When  things  seemed  again  to  be  going 
smoothly,  everyone  of  the  five  putting  his 
soul  into  the  music,  the  sound  of  wheels  was 
faintly  heard  by  Father  Dan;  the  sound 
ceased  opposite  the  door;  he  succeeded  in 
silencing  the  music  in  time  to  hear  Kitty's 
greeting  at  the  door  responded  to  in  the  well- 
known  voice  of  Dr.  McGilligan,  the  Bishop! 
Father  Dan,  in  one  awe-stricken  glance, 
took  in  the  room  with  its  five  fiddlers — four 
of  them  as  disreputable-looking  as  ever  sat 
in  a  priest's  parlour — nursing  their  fiddles 
around  a  table  on  which  was  a  stout  quart 
bottle  and  a  glass,  and  inwardly  he  asked 
himself  why  he  was  born!  "  The  Bishop!  " 
was  all  he  could  ejaculate  to  his  startled  com- 
panions. But  that  was  enough.  Quicker- 
witted  or  perhaps  less  frightened  than  he, 
the  four  musicians  as  with  one  accord  popped 
under  the  table,  fiddles  and  all;  and  one  of 
them,  seized  with  sudden  presence  of  mind, 
put  up  a  long  arm  from  the  hiding-place  and 
bore  off  the  bottle  just  one  moment  ere  the 
good  old  Bishop,  in  his  own  familiar  way, 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four  221 

Balked  in  unannounced.  The  table-cloth  of 
generous  amplitude  let  fall  its  ends  to  the 
floor  around  the  table;  and  so  Father  Dan 
had  half  recovered  himself,  sufficiently  re- 
covered himself  anyhow  to  greet  his  Bishop 
warmly,  and  thanked  him  profusely  for  the 
honour  of  this  unexpected  visit.  The  good 
Bishop  instantly  made  himself  at  home,  seat- 
ing himself  in  an  arm-chair  to  one  side  of 
the  fireplace,  his  side  to  the  fire  and  his  face 
to  the  room.  The  sight  of  a  glass  on  the 
table  naturally  turned  the  Doctor's  discourse 
on  the  subject  of  all  others  nearest  his  heart, 
the  cause  of  temperance.  And  as  Father 
Dan,  with  something  very  much  akin  to 
twinges  of  conscience,  gave  him  an  encourag- 
ing account  of  the  progress  of  the  cause  in 
his  parish,  his  trial  only  properly  com- 
menced, for  the  table  got  a  distinct  knock 
from  below,  such  as  would  be  caused  by  the 
heel  of  an  inverted  bottle  going  up  suddenly. 
Father  Dan  conjectured  this  was  but  the  first 
of  a  series.  And  rightly.  With  a  well  pre- 
pared cough  he  half  drowned  the  next  rap. 
Proceeding  with  his  discourse,  he  kept  his 
right  heel  in  readiness — by  an  opportune 


222     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

crack  of  which  on  the  floor  he  confounded 
the  following  one.  A  shuffle  of  his  feet 
fairly  well  confused  the  next  succeeding  one. 
But  it  was  getting  a  trying  ordeal.  Adroitly 
punctuating  his  argument  by  a  few  raps  of  his 
knuckles  on  the  table  neutralized  a  few  more. 
Thereat  taking  his  cue,  he  became  so  demon- 
strative in  his  argument  and  clinched  his 
points  with  such  and  so  many  blows  on  the 
table,  that  he  would  soon  have  awaked  con- 
jectures in  Dr.  McGilligan's  mind,  but  that 
gentleman  turned  his  face  towards  the  fire 
for  a  moment,  and  the  bottle,  to  Father  Dan's 
utter  consternation,  was  rapidly  reached  out 
from  under  the  table  and  deposited,  of  all 
places  in  the  world,  under  the  heavy  drap- 
ings  that  hung  from  his  Lordship's  chair! 
An  old  brown  and  bony  hand,  too,  had  gone 
out  from  under  the  table  at  a  few  feet 
distant  from  the  rugged  one  that  held  the 
bottle  (yet  quarter-filled),  and  made  a  rather 
aimless  grab  for  the  bottle,  and  then  retired 
slowly,  as  it  were  disappointedly,  beneath  the 
fringes  of  the  table-cloth  again.  Though 
this  proceeding  took  barely  a  few  seconds, 
it  seemed  to  Father  Dan  an  hour.  Distinct 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four  223 

beads  of  perspiration  certainly  did  start  on 
his  brow;  he  had  not  even  presence  of  mind 
to  make  a  noise.  But  as  the  mysterious  hand 
missed  its  grab,  something,  which  might  be 
a  grumble  or  might  be  any  indistinct  sound 
under  the  moon,  was  emitted  from  under  the 
table,  and  the  Bishop's  eye,  Father  Dan  ob- 
served, detected  a  swaying  in  the  drapery 
depending  from  the  table. 

Father  Dan  said  "  Scat!  "  and  stamped  his 
foot. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  troubled  with  rats?  " 
Dr.  McGilligan  said, 

"  Oh,  yes,  sometimes — sometimes — annoy- 
ing villains— annoying  villains.  But  as  I 
was  saying  about  Father  Hugh's  parish — " 
and  he  had  the  discourse  again  reverted  to 
its  proper  channel,  and  was  comparatively 
at  ease  once  more. 

But  not  for  long.  He  observed  when  the 
Doctor  looked  any  other  way  than  straight 
before  him  that  brown,  bony,  big  hand  came 
out  on  a  rambling  excursion,  darting  sud- 
denly back  to  cover  each  time  the  Bishop's 
eye  threatened  to  come  back.  And  he  then 
observed  a  bright  eye  glistening  through  a 


224     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

hole  in  the  table-cloth,  at  about  a  foot  from 
the  ground.  And  every  time  the  ugly  hand 
came  out,  and  grasped,  and  sprawled,  he  felt 
an  itching  to  give  it  a  thundering  good  whack 
of  his  staff  that  would  cure  it  of  its  rambling. 
He  had  to  say  "  Scat! "  several  times,  when 
he  fancied  Dr.  McGilligan's  attention  was 
attracted  by  the  slight  noises,  or  by  the  shak- 
ing of  the  table-cover.  All  his  endeavours 
to  entice  Dr.  McGilligan  to  be  shown  to  his 
room,  that  he  might  brush  himself  up  after 
his  journey,  were  unavailing,  for  his  Lord- 
ship would  persist  in  having  out  his  chat 
first. 

The  hand  had  come  out  about  the  tenth 
time,  and  had  gone  rambling  and  fumbling 
in  the  direction  of  the  Bishop's  chair,  and 
had  swiftly  retreated  on  false  alarms,  and 
slowly  gone  forth,  and  rapidly  come  back, 
and  hesitatingly  gone  pioneering  again,  until 
just  as  Kitty  Byrne  appeared  with  a  lapful 
of  turf  for  the  fire,  a  second  even  uglier  hand 
— and  both  were  left  hands — had  crept  out, 
and  both  were  making  ineffectual  darts  at 
something  unseen  by  Kitty.  She  suddenly 
stopped  short  on  first  seeing  them  a  few  feet 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four  225 

before  her,  and  across  her  passage.  Then 
she  quickly  took  in  half  the  situation:  re- 
venge was  sweet,  and  Kitty  laid  down  her 
broad  and  heavy  boot,  with  very  much  em- 
phasis, plump  on  the  back  of  the  nearest 
hand  to  her.  There  was  a  stifled  cry,  luckily 
covered  by  the  noise  with  which  Father  Dan 
hitched  his  chair  and  coughed.  Kitty's 
ankle  was  immediately  caught  firmly  by  a 
right  hand,  and  viciously  wrenched.  She 
swayed,  staggered  forward,  and,  first  her  load 
of  turf,  then  herself,  was  pitched  into  his 
Lordship's  lap,  out  of  which  Kitty  narrowly 
escaped  rolling  into  the  fire.  In  the  com- 
motion, three  hands  started  out  simulta- 
neously from  beneath  the  table,  swooped 
under  his  Lordship's  chair,  the  bottle  rapidly 
passed  back  in  one,  the  other  two  hands  fol- 
lowed, limp,  and  one  might  easily  think  half 
disappointed.  The  spirit-rappings  under- 
neath the  table  set  in  again  at  once;  sharp 
and  quick  they  were.  But  there  was  yet  too 
much  commotion  for  them  to  be  heard 
amongst  the  party  at  the  fire.  Father  Dan 
sharply  reprimanded  Kitty  for  her  clumsi- 
ness in  tripping,  and  begged  a  thousand  par- 
15 


226     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

dons  of  Dr.  McGilligan,  while  Kitty  was  too 
much  overcome  with  horror  of  the  situation 
to  do  more  than  clasp  her  hands,  and  turn 
up  her  eyes  to  heaven,  and  cluck  her  tongue 
against  the  roof  of  her  mouth,  in  attempted 
expression  of  her  inexpressible  feelings. 

Good  Dr.  McGilligan  tried  to  reassure  and 
quiet  them,  and  he  repeated,  "  Tut!  Tut! 
Tut!  "  till  he  got  them  in  a  moderately  calm 
condition  again.  Then  he  consented  that  he 
would  look  into  his  room  while  Kitty  was 
getting  them  a  cup  of  tea.  But  as  he  would 
have  risen  from  his  seat,  he  fell  back  again 
slightly  startled,  for  before  his  eyes,  and  ap- 
parently none  interfering  with  it,  one  end 
of  the  table  was  suddenly  tilted  up  some  six 
inches,  and  slowly  descended  again.  Father 
Dan  could  neither  move  nor  speak.  Kitty 
Byrne  collapsed  on  the  sofa.  Then  the  other 
end  of  the  table  went  up  as  mysteriously  for 
a  foot,  it  swayed  to  right  and  left  for  a  few 
seconds,  while  some  strange  uncertain  sounds 
were  heard  from  beneath;  then  the  table  sub- 
sided once  more,  and  for  a  momentary  space 
there  was  no  sound.  Father  Dan  strove  to 
reach  for  his  blackthorn  which  rested  against 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four  227 

the  wall  within  a  yard  of  him — but  on  the 
way  his  hand  was  paralyzed,  and  fell  back  to 
his  side.  Now,  the  table  bodily  bounded, 
sharply  and  suddenly  to  the  height  of  a  foot, 
and  as  suddenly  came  down  again.  A  dis- 
tinct scuffling  noise  was  heard.  Then — 

"  Tarnation  saize  ye;  let  go  me  throat! " 

"  Let  go  the  bottle  or  I'll  choke  ye  as  dhry 
as  a  whinstone  rock!  " 

"  Hish! " 

"  Hish,  or  I'll  prod  the  ribs  aff  ye! " 

"  Let  go  the  bottle,  hatchet-face!  let  go  the 
bottle! " 

"  Not  if  it  was  to  save  yer  sowl,  cruked 
mouth! " 

"  Ye  natarnal  veg  ye!  bad  luck  to  ye,  an* 
his  Lordship  listenin'! " 

"I  don't  care  a  thraneen  if  Sent  Pether 
himself  was  listenin',  I'll  have  the  bottle  or 
his  ribs  'ill  get  what  Paddy  gave  the 
dhrum! " 

"  De'il's  cure  to  you,  spavin-feet,  an'  take 
that! " 

His  Lordship  sat  terrified.  Father  Dan 
sat  terrified.  Kitty  Byrne  lay  astounded. 
Beneath  the  table  then  arose  a  general  hub- 


228     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

bub.  One  side  the  table  then  rose  a  couple 
of  feet  and  sank.  Then  rose  again — and 
the  other  side  followed.  Luckily,  Father 
Dan  kept  his  candle  on  the  mantel.  Before 
the  startled  and  staring  prelate  the  table  rose 
up  five  or  six  feet  from  the  ground,  swayed, 
shook — there  was  a  crackling  noise  such  as 
might  be  produced  by  trampling  on  and 
bursting-in  fiddles — and  then  the  table  shot 
over  and  lit  on  its  side  on  the  fender,  and 
thence  tumbled  over,  exposing  four  big  fel- 
lows struggling  and  gasping,  and  punching 
and  grappling,  and  finally  bellowing,  trampl- 
ing all  the  while  on  the  debris  of  four  fiddles, 
to  the  utter  and  fearful  consternation  of 
good  Dr.  McGilligan,  and  the  unspeakable 
mortification  of  poor  Father  Dan. 

After  Father  Dan,  with  the  substantial 
help  of  his  staff,  had  cleared  out  the  four 
arrant  villains,  and  left  them  rubbing  their 
wounds  far  from  his  door,  and  pitched  out 
after  them  the  sorry  remains  of  their  fiddles, 
he  threw  himself  on  the  Bishop's  mercy,  ex- 
plained and  apologized,  apologized  and  ex- 
plained; but  the  Bishop,  when  he  had  gath- 


Father  Dan  and  Fiddlers  Four  229 

ered  his  meaning  and  purport  as  best  he 
could  from  a  disjointed  statement,  went  into 
fit  after  fit  of  long,  loud,  and  hearty  laughter, 
which  seized  him  at  intervals  even  in  bed 
that  night.  Father  Dan  affected  to  join,  but 
the  poor  man's  laugh  was  distressingly  me- 
chanical, and  in  his  heart  he  vowed  to  whale 
and  whack  every  fiddler  from  either  Killy- 
mard  or  Drimholm  whom  he'd  find  within, 
the  bounds  of  his  parish  from  that  sad  night 
forward.  And  certainly  such  were  after- 
wards very  chary  of  trespassing  on  the  for- 
bidden region. 

That  is  the  story  of  Father  Dan  and  the 
Fiddlers  Four. 


Jack   Who  was  the  Ashypet 


Jack    Who  was  the  Ashypet 

WANST  on  a  time  when  Kings  and  Queens 
was  as  plenty  in  Ireland  as  good  people,  and 
good  people  as  plenty  as  Kings  and  Queens, 
there  was  a  poor  widdy  woman  and  she  had 
wan  son  they  called  Jack.  Now  this  Jack 
was  a  lazy,  good-for-nothin'  sthreel  of  an 
ashypet,  who  sat  round  the  fire  with  his  heels 
and  his  toes  never  out  of  the  ashes  all  days 
of  the  year,  and  all  years  of  his  life,  till  he 
grew  to  he  man-big,  and  he  neither  good  for 
King,  country  nor  clippin'  sheep. 

Till  wan  day  at  long  an'  at  last,  he  ups, 
and  he  says,  says  he, 

"  Mother,"  says  he,  "  it's  the  black  shame's 
on  me  to  be  hunkerin'  in  the  ashes  all  days 
o'  me  life,  an'  you  puttin'  the  bone  through 
the  skin  thryin'  to  do  for  me.  It  has  been 
so  long,  but  it'll  not  be  so  longer.  Bake 
me  a  bannock,  cut  me  a  callop,  an'  give  me 


234     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

yer  blissin*  till  I  go  away  to  push  me  for- 
tune." 

No  sooner  said  nor  done. 

"Very  well,  Jack  ahaisge,"  says  the 
mother.  And  she  baked  him  his  bannock, 
cut  him  his  callop,  give  him  her  blissin',  an' 
off  went  poor  Jack  to  push  his  fortune. 

And  on  and  on  afore  him  Jack  walked, 
till,  in  the  hait  of  the  day,  haltin'  to  rest 
himself,  and  to  eat  a  bit  of  his  bannock,  he 
obsarves  on  the  flag  he  was  goin'  to  seat  him- 
self down  on,  a  flock  of  big  black  flies,  an* 
he  ups  with  his  stick  an*  kilt  three-an'-thirty 
of  them, — for  he  counted  them,  an'  wan  o' 
them  was  a  dale  bigger  nor  the  others. 

"  Now  that's  what  I  call  a  good  blow,"  says 
Jack;  an'  gettin'  an  old  rusty  nail  he  wrote 
upon  his  stick — 

"  With  wan  blow  o'  this  stick  I  kilt  a 
clargyman  an'  two  an'  thirty  of  a  congrega- 
tion." 

Afther  that,  Jack  he  thravelled  on  and  on, 
far  further  nor  I  could  tell  you,  and  twicet 
further  nor  you  could  tell  me,  till  at  last  he 
come  to  a  country  where  he  found  two  Joy- 
ants  buildin'  a  bridge.  Here  Jack  climbs 


Jack  Who  was  the  Ashypet     235 

up  a  tree  unbeknownst  to  the  Joyants,  an* 
takin'  a  wee  pebble-stone  out  of  his  pocket 
he  fires  an'  hits  wan  o'  the  Joyants  that  was 
in  front  of  the  other,  with  it. 

"  Don't  do  that  again,  I  tell  ye! "  says  the 
Joyant  that  was  sthruck,  says  he,  to  his 
brother  Joyant. 

Then  he  went  on  with  his  work,  but  he 
wasn't  right  at  it,  till  Jack  the  rascal  threw 
another  small  pebble-stone  an'  sthruck  him 
again. 

"  Be  this  an'  be  that,"  says  the  Joyant, 
says  he,  as  black  as  thunder,  "  if  ye  do  that 
again  I'll  throw  ye  over  the  bridge!  " 

But  me  brave  Joyant  had  scarce  yocked 
his  work  the  second  time,  when  Jack  rattles 
another  purty  little  pebble-stone  off  his  skull. 

"  Melia  murtker!  "  roars  the  Joyant.  An' 
afore  givin'  him  time  to  bliss  himself  he  had 
his  brother  Joyant  be  the  throat  an'  over  the 
bridge,  an'  kilt  him  cowl'  dead  on  the  rocks 
below. 

An'  at  this  me  poor  Jack  couldn't  houl* 
himself  in  no  longer,  but  laughed  an' 
laughed  till  he  rowled  down  out  of  the  tree. 

"  Oh,  ye  vagabone! "  says  the  Joyant,  "  so 


236     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

it  was  you  that  done  it,  an'  made  me  kill  me 
poor  brother. — Oh  ye  vagabone  ye! "  says 
he,  "it's  me'll  make  the  short  work  o'  ye!" 

"  Stan'  off,  stan'  off,"  says  Jack,  says  he, 
wavin'  his  hand,  "ye  don't  know  who  ye're 
talkin'  to.  Are  you  aware,"  says  Jack,  says 
he,  "  the  wondherful  fait  that  I  parformed?" 

"I'm  not,"  says  the  Joyant,  says  he, 
"what  was  that?" 

"I  kilt,"  says  Jack,  says  he,  "with  wan 
blow  o'  that  stick,  a  clargyman  an'  his  con- 
gregation of  two-an'-thirty." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  says  the 
Joyant. 

"  There,  then,"  says  Jack,  handin'  him 
the  stick — "  There,  then,"  says  he,  "  read  it 
for  yerself." 

"  Thrue  enough,"  says  the  Joyant,  his  jaw 
dhroppin'  all  at  wanst  when  he  read  what 
was  on  the  stick.  "  But  sure  ye'll  not  touch 
me,  Jack,"  says  he,  "  an'  I'll  not  say  a  word 
to  ye  if  I  had  fifty-five  brothers,  an'  ye  made 
me  kill  every  sowl  o'  them." 

"  Never  fear," 'says  Jack,  "  I  have  made  it 
a  rule  never  to  intherfere  with  the  young  or 
the  wake." 


Jack  Who  was  the  Ashypet     237 

So,  home  with  him  the  Joyant  fetched 
Jack;  an'  when  Jack  had  got  his  fill  of  a 
good  supper  an'  gone  to  bed,  an'  left  the 
Joyant  an'  his  oul'  mother  sittin'  be  the 
fire — 

"Isn't  this  a  nice  how-do-you-do,"  says 
the  oul'  mother,  says  she,  "  that  ye  kilt  yer 
poor  brother  all  through  this  scoundhril's 
thricks." 

"  Oh,  whisht,  whisht,  whisht,  mother! " 
eays  the  Joyant,  says  he,  "for  feerd  Jack 
would  hear  ye,  an'  come  down  out  o'  the 
room  an'  kill  us  all.  Whisht,  whisht,  whisht, 
mother!  "  says  he,  "  ye  don't  know  what  ye're 
talkin'  about! " 

"  Go  to  pot,"  says  she,  "  for  a  blatherskite. 
I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it  that  he  has  the 
sthrength  he  lets  on."* 

"  Oh,  whisht,  whisht,  whisht,  mother! " 
says  the  Joyant,  "  sure  didn't  me  own  two 
eyes  read  it  off  the  stick!  " 

"  Botheration  take  you  an'  the  stick,"  says 
she,  "for  the  edict  ye  are!  Is  that  all  the 
proof  ye  have?  I'll  tell  ye,"  says  she, 
"  what  ye'll  do,  to  thry  him  out  for  it:  just 

*  Pretends. 


238     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

ax  him  out  to  the  meadow  the  morra-mornin' 
for  a  sthroll;  I'll  lave  in  yer  way  the  three- 
ton  sledge-head  of  yer  brother's,  an'  the 
seven-ton  sledge-head  of  yer  own,  an'  the 
ten-ton  wan  of  yer  poor  oul'  father  when  he 
was  alive:  yous  'ill  come  across  them  be  ac- 
cident, an'  you  purpose  to  thry  him  a  throw 
at  them  for  fun.  Then  we'll  soon  see  his 
sthren'th,  an'  be  the  games,  if  he  turns  out 
the  imposthure  I  believe  him  to  be,  we'll 
soon  do  for  him  then." 

Well  an'  good;  the  mornin'  come,  an'  me 
boul'  Jack  was  up  with  the  lark. 

"  What  do  ye  say,  Jack/'  says  the  Joyant, 
says  he,  "  to  a  turn  in  the  meadow  without, 
to  get  up  yer  appetite?  " 

"  I  say  it's  no  bad  iday-a,"  says  Jack. 

So  out  the  both  o'  them  marches,  Jack 
cheek-be- jowl  with  the  Joyant,  an'  through 
the  meadow  they  goes,  an'  it  wasn't  long  till 
they  come  across  a  sledge-head. 

"I  say,"  says  Jack,  "what's  this?" 

"  Oh,"  says  the  Joyant,  says  he,  turnin'  it 
over  with  his  toe,  "  that's  only  a  little  sledge- 
head  belongin*  to  me  poor  brother:  it's  lyin' 
here  where  himself  an'  me  used  to  come  out 


Jack  Who  was  the  Ashypet     239 

of  a  mornin'  an'  throw  it  for  exercise. — What 
do  ye  say,  Jack,  to  a  throw  of  it?  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  of  course, — sartintly  we'll 
have  a  throw  at  it  be  all  means,"  says  Jack. 

"Will  you  throw  first,  Jack?"  says  the 
Joyant. 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  says  Jack,  "  that  sort  of 
thing  would  be  considhered  very  bad  man- 
ners o'  me  in  my  counthry." 

So  up  with  the  sledge  did  the  Joyant,  an' 
at  wan  throw  he  threw  it  eleven  mile. 

"  Now,  Jack,"  says  he,  "  it's  your  turn." 

"  Oh,  just  when  ye  threw  it  away,"  says 
Jack,  "  be  good  enough  to  lay  it  back  again." 

So,  off  went  the  Joyant  an'  fetched  it  back, 
an'  left  it  down  at  Jack's  feet. 

"Himph!"  says  Jack,  says  he,  lookin'  at 
it.  "What  weight  do  ye  call  that?" 

"  Three  ton,"  says  the  Joyant. 

"Have  ye  any  others?"  says  Jack. 

"  Yes,"  says  the  Joyant,  says  he,  "  there's 
a  seven-ton  wan  belongin'  to  me,  an'  a  ten- 
ton  wan  belongin'  to  me  poor  oul'  father, 
lyin'  about." 

"  Get  them,"  says  Jack. 

The  Joyant,  all  wondherment,  got  them. 


240     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  Get  a  rope  an'  tie  the  three  together 
now,"  says  Jack. 

The  Joyant  done  this,  too;  his  eyes  growin' 
bigger  every  minnit. 

"  Plaise  to  stand  back  out  o'  me  road,  now, 
me  good  fella,"  says  Jack,  sthrippin'  himself 
of  his  coat,  an'  rowlin'  up  his  sleeves,  "  an' 
gimme  room  to  wind  me  arms,  or  ye  might 
get  hurted." 

Back  the  Joyant  stands,  wondherin'  more 
an'  more,  an'  ready  to  dhrop  with  the  won- 
dher.  An'  Jack,  puttin'  his  two  fingers  in 
his  mouth  gives  a  loud  whistle. 

"What  do  ye  mane  be  that?"  says  the 
Joyant. 

"  Oh,  nothin,"  says  Jack,  "  only  it's  a 
blacksmith  lives  at  home,  an'  naybours  me 
in  Dinnygal,  an'  when  I  was  comin'  away  he 
put  it  on  me  if  I'd  meet  any  likely  bits  o' 
scrap-iron  on  me  way,  to  be  sure  an'  mind 
not  to  forget  but  pick  them  up  an'  take  them 
home  to  him.  But  do  you  think,"  says  Jack, 
says  he,  offended,  "that  I've  got  nothin' 
whatsomiver  to  do  only  be  cadgin'  bits  o' 
scraps  like  these  round  with  me?  I'll  pitch 
them  home  to  him  now  an'  be  done  with 


Jack  Who  was  the  Ashypet     241 

them. — That  whistle's  to  put  him  on  the 
lookout." 

"  Aisy,  aisy,"  says  the  Joyant,  "  ye're  not 
surely  goin'  to  throw  our  beautiful  sledge- 
heads  home  to  a  blacksmith  for  scrap-iron. 
Melia  murther,  no! " 

"  Stand  back,"  says  Jack.  "  Stand  back," 
says  he,  making  great  sthrives  entirely  to  get 
1y  the  Joyant,  an'  get  at  the  sledge-heads. 

"  No,  no,  no!  "  says  the  Joyant.  "  Mother, 
mother,  mother!  he's  goin'  to  throw  our 
purty  sledge-heads  home  to  a  blacksmith  for 
scrap-iron.  No,  Jack,  Jack,"  says  he,  "  sure 
ye  wouldn't  be  as  bad  as  that  on  us?  " 

"Arrah,  bad  win'  to  you  an*  yer  little 
sledge-heads,"  says  Jack,  rowlin'  down  his 
sleeves  again,  an'  gettin'  intil  his  coat.  "  The 
norra  be  with  you  an'  them!  for  to  go  an' 
for  to  raise  such  a  phillalew  about  nothin! 
Take  them  out  o'  me  sight,"  says  he,  turnin' 
an'  marchin'  home  to  his  brekwuss. 

An'  that  night  again,  when  Jack  had  gone 
to  bed,  the  Joyant  an'  his  mother  was  be- 
moanin'  to  wan  another  over  the  fire. 

"  But  now,"  says  the  Joyant's  mother, 
"afther  all,  he  didn't  throw  the  sledges  home. 
16 


242     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

There's  no  bein'  up  to  the  thricks  o'  them 
people  comes  from  Dinnygal,  an'  I  can't  get 
it  off  me  mind  yet  but  he's  maybe  only  an 
imposther.  Now,  we  must  thry  him  out  for 
it;  so,  the  morra-mornin'  you  put  the  hand- 
sticks  in  the  water-barrel  without,  that 
houlds  ten  ton  weight  o'  water,  an'  ax  him 
help  ye  to  carry  the  full  of  it  back  from  the 
lough,  an'  then  we'll  soon  see  what  stuff  he's 
made  of." 

Right  enough,  in  the  mornin'  the  Joyant 
puts  the  hand-sticks  into  the  emp'y  wather- 
barrel,  that  weighed  three  ton  weight  itself, 
an'  he  says  to  Jack, 

"  Jack,"  says  he,  "  me  mother  would  like 
to  get  a  dhrop  o'  wather  fetched  over  from 
the  lough  beyant.  This  little  stand  only 
holds  ten  tons,  an'  my  brother  an'  I  used  to 
carry  her  the  full  of  it  every  mornin',  but 
I  know  you'll  be  kindly  enough  to  help  me 
now." 

"  Is  it  help  ye!  "  says  Jack.  "  Oh,  surely, 
surely,  sartintly  I'll  help  ye." 

"All  right,"  says  the  Joyant,  "I'll  take 
houP  o'  this  end  of  the  sticks,  you  of  that 
end.  Are  ye  ready?  " 


Jack  Who  was  the  Ashypet     243 

"Keady/'  says  Jack.  "Lift  away,  me 
jewel! " 

But  the  minnit  the  Joyant  lifted,  Jack  lets 
go  his  end,  an'  he  brakin'  his  heart  laughin'. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha-ha-ha-a-a! "  says  Jack,  says 
he.  "Do  ye  know  what  I'm  laughin'  at?" 
says  he;  an'  he  yocks  to  tell  the  Joyant  a 
dhroll  put-out.  "  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha-a-a!  " 
says  Jack,  says  he,  "  did  ye  ever  hear  a  betther 
wan  nor  that  in  yer  born  days?  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
ha-a-a!  what's  this  to  do  at  all,  at  all! "  says 
he,  houldin'  his  sides  with  the  laughin'. 
"  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha-a-a!  that's  no  miss  of  a 
joke,"  says  Jack,  "  or  did  ye  ever  meet  with 
the  bate  of  it!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Anee,  anee, 
oh! "  says  Jack,  says  he,  an'  he  lay  down  on 
the  grass  an'  he  rowled  with  the  laughin'. 
"  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  Anee-oh!  anee-oh! 
anee-oh! "  says  he,  "  I'll  never  get  over 
this! " 

Till  at  long  an'  at  last,  the  Joyant  had  to 
get  his  arms  about  the  water-barrel  an'  hoise 
it  off  to  the  lough  himself.  Then,  when  he 
had  it  filled,  he  got  the  sticks  intil  it  again, 
an'  told  Jack  to  take  hold  of  his  end,  till 
they'd  get  it  home. 


244     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"Yis,  me  fine  fella,"  says  Jack,  says  he, 
gettin'  hold  o'  the  sticks. 

"  Are  ye  ready?  "  says  the  Joyant. 

"Ready!"  says  Jack;  "lift  away,  me 
jewel! " 

But  the  minnit  the  Joyant  went  to  lift, 
Jack  let  go  his  end  o'  the  sticks,  nearly 
br'akin'  the  Joyant's  hack. 

"  Och,  blatheration!  "  says  Jack,  as  angry 
as  ye  plaise,  "  what's  the  sense  o'  this  way  o' 
workin',  carryin'  home  water  in  wee  dhribs 
like  this!  Tell  me,"  says  he  to  the  Joyant, 
"have  ye  got  any  spades  about  the  house? 
an'  what  size  are  they?" 

"We  have,"  says  the  Joyant,  wondherin' 
what  Jack  was  up  to  now;  "  there's  a  spade, 
belongin'  to  me  poor  brother  that's  dead,  that 
lifts  three  acres  at  a  time,  an'  wan  belongin' 
to  me  that  lifts  seven  acres  at  a  time,  an'  wan 
belongin'  to  me  poor  father  that  lifts  ten 
acres." 

"  Take  an'  get  them  three  little  spades," 
says  Jack,  says  he,  "  knocked  into  wan  mid- 
dim'  spade,  an'  fetch  it  to  me,  an'  I'll  soon 
cut  a  way  for  the  lough  to  get  down  round 
yer  house,  so  that  yer  oul'  mother  'ill  only 


Jack  Who  was  the  Ashypet     245 

have  to  come  to  the  door-step  and  lift  what- 
ever water  she  wants." 

"  Oh,  vo!  vo!  vo! "  says  the  Joyant. 
"  Melia  murther!  melia  murther!"  says  he, 

«/  * 

runnin'  home  to  his  mother  an'  tellin'  her  all 
how  this  Jack  fella  wanted  to  fetch  the  whole 
lough  down  round  the  house,  so  that  she 
might  fall  in  an'  get  dhrownded  some 
mornin'. 

So  even  the  Joyant's  oul'  mother  had  to 
give  in  that  Jack  must  be  a  tarrible  fella, 
entirely,  out  an'  out,  an'  they  must  get  rid 
of  him  somehow  or  other. 

An'  that  self-same  night  when  Jack  went 
to  T>ed,  he  didn't  go  to  bed  at  all,  only  stayed 
listenin'  at  the  room  door,  an'  heerd  the 
Joyant  an'  his  mother  discoorsin'  how  they'd 
kill  him.  An'  they  agreed  to  take  the  ten- 
ton  sledge-head  an'  go  up  an'  kill  him  with 
it  when  he'd  be  asleep.  So,  me  brave  Jack 
takes  a  calf  they  had  tied  in  the  room,  an* 
puttin'  him  lyin'  in  the  bed,  he  put  in  a  lot 
of  dry  sticks  along  with  him,  an'  covered 
over  the  whole  with  the  blankets,  an'  got 
undher  a  lump  of  rubbish  in  the  corner  him- 
self. 


246     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

After  a  while  up  comes  the  Joyant,  an'  he 
whispers  "  Jack! " 

But  the  sorra  answer  Jack  made,  only 
snored  from  his  corner. 

"  Come  on,  mother! "  says  the  Joyant, 
goin'  back  to  the  door,  "  he's  as  sound  as  a 
top." 

Up  comes  the  mother  with  the  ten-ton 
sledge-head  in  her  arms,  an'  the  Joyant  gets 
behind  her  an'  shoves  her  on  tor'st  the  bed 
where  they  seen  the  bulk  lyin'. 

"  Now,  mother,"  says  the  Joyant,  from 
behind  her.  "Now,  mother,"  says  he, 
"  strike!  an'  strike  hard!  " 

An',  with  that,  the  oul'  mother  ups  with 
the  sledge-head,  an'  fetches  it  down  wan 
sillendher  on  the  bulk.  An'  the  dhry  sticks 
cracked,  an'  the  poor  calf  could  only  blurt 
out  "Boo-oo-oo! " 

"  Ha-a-a!  ye  scoundhril."  says  the  Joy- 
ant, lookin'  over  his  mother's  shoulder, 
"ye  got  that.  Did  ye  hear  his  bones 
crackin',  mother?  Give  him  another  to 
aise  him." 

So  the  oul'  mother  ups  with  the  sledge- 
hammer, an'  down  she  comes  another  sil- 


Jack  Who  was  the  Ashypet     247 

lendher  on  the  bed.  An'  the  sticks  cracked 
again,  an'  the  poor  calf  said  "  Boo-oo-oo! " 

"  Ha-a-a!  "  says  the  Joyant,  "  that's  you, 
mother,  give  the  villain  wan  other  to  aise 
him." 

An'  the  oul'  mother  ups  with  the  sledge- 
head  again  an'  down  she  comes  another 
sillendher  on  the  bed. 

But  the  poor  calf  said  nothin'  now,  for 
he  was  kilt  dead. 

"  Ah,  bully  are  ye,  mother! "  says  the 
Joyant,  "now  he's  aised." 

An'  down  both  o'  them  goes  to  the  kitchen, 
an'  sittin'  down  at  the  fire,  went  out  of  wan 
fit  o'  laughin'  intil  another  at  how  aisy  they 
had  got  rid  of  poor  Jack. 

But  lo!  an'  behoul'  ye,  in  the  middle  of  it 
all,  the  room-door  opens,  an'  in  steps  me 
brave  Jack  into  the  kitchen  with  his  shoes 
an'  stockin's  under  his  arm;  and  he  dhraws 
forrid  a  sait  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  atwixt 
the  Joyant  an'  his  mother. 

"  Boys-a-boys! "  says  Jack,  says  he,  an' 
him  thrimblin',  "I  couldn't  lie  in  that  bed 
no  longer,"  says  he,  "for  a  tarrible  wild 
dhraim  I'm  afther  havin'." 


248     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  A  dhraim!  "  says  the  Joy  ant. 

"  A  dhraim!  "  says  the  Joyant's  mother. 

"Yis,  a  dhraim,  an'  a  tarrible  wan  en- 
tirely," says  Jack.  "I  dhraimt,"  says  he, 
that  I  was  out  in  a  shower  o'  hailstones,  an* 
that  three  great,  big,  big  wans  struck  me 
right  there  on  the  stomach,  an'  a'most  took 
the  breath  from  me.  Oh,  oh,  oh! "  says  he, 
rubbin'  his  stomach  hard,  "  I  think  I  feel  it 
smartin'  still.  Oh,  oh,  oh! "  says  he. 

An'  the  Joyant  looked  at  the  oul'  mother, 
an'  the  oul'  mother  looked  at  the  Joyant; 
but  naither  o'  them  spoke — only  shuk  their 
heads  at  other,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  There's 
for  ye!  three  ~big  hailstones!  " 

"Jack,"  then  says  the  Joyant's  mother, 
"  don't  ye  think  aren't  ye  a  long  time  away 
from  yer  home  an'  from  yer  mother  now? 
And  don't  ye  think  wouldn't  it  be  a  good 
notion  if  ye  made  a  push  back  for  yer  own 
counthry  again'  mornin'  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  ill  me  comin'  to  do  anything 
o5  the  sort,"  says  Jack,  "  for  to  go  for  to  disart 
ye  afther  all  the  wee  kindnesses  ye've  shown 
me  while  I  was  here.  No,  no,  no,"  says  Jack, 
"  you've  been  both  mother  an'  father  to  me, 


Jack  Who  was  the  Ashypet     249 

an'  this  house  is  goin'  to  be  my  home,  plaise 
Providence,  for  the  time  to  come.  Oh,  no, 
no,  no,  don't  think  I'd  be  so  small  as  for  to 
go  for  to  disart  ye  that  way,"  says  Jack. 

So,  the  lee  an'  the  long  of  it  was  that  they 
had  to  offer  Jack,  if  he'd  return  home,  he'd 
have  all  the  goold  he  could  carry  with  him. 
An'  at  long  an'  at  last  Jack  consented — only, 
he  said,  he  wouldn't  ax  all  the  goold  he  could 
carry,  for  that  would  rob  them  entirely,  out 
an'  out;  he'd  only  ax  what  goold  the  Joyant 
could  carry.  So,  off  at  length  the  Joyant 
an'  Jack  started,  an'  the  Joyant  two-double 
undher  a  great  sack  of  goold,  an'  he  left  Jack 
three  days'  journey  on  his  way,  puttin'  him 
over  the  bordhers  intil  his  own  counthry. 
An'  Jack  soon  found  manes  of  fetchin'  the 
goold  the  remaindher  of  the  way  home, 
where  right  hearty  glad  his  poor  oul'  mother 
was  to  see  her  own  Ashypet  come  back.  But 
when  she  saw  the  sight  o'  the  goold  was 
along  with  him,  it's  sartin  sure  ye  may  be 
that  she  was  beside  herself  with  the  delight. 
There  was  an  open  house,  an'  faistin', 
aitin',  an'  dhrinkin'  for  nine  days  an'  nine 
nights — every  day  an'  night  betther  nor  the 


250     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

other  an'  the  last  day  an'  night  the  best  of 
all. 

And  Jack  he  built  a  great  castle  with  a 
window  again'  every  day  o'  the  year.  An' 
himself  an'  his  poor  oul'  mother  lived  happy 
iver  afther. 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High 
Mayor  of  Dublin 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High 
Mayor  of  Dublin 

IN  the  rare  ould  times,  long,  long,  ago, 
whin  there  was  paice  an'  plinty  in  Irelan', 
an'  whin  you'd  meet  with  more  humours  an' 
cracks  in  one  day's  journey  than  now  in  a 
year  an'  a  day,  there  was  an  aged  widdy 
woman,  an'  she  had  one  son,  an'  they  called 
him  Jack.  An'  Jack  an'  his  ould  mother 
owned  a  wee  hut  of  a  house  not  a  bit  bigger 
nor  that  ye  might  put  yer  han'  down  the 
chimley  an'  take  the  boult  off  o'  the  door, 
an'  they  had  a  stretch  o'  land  behind  the 
house  that  supported  one  Nanny-goat  in  aise 
an'  comfort.  An'  moreover  nor  the  Nanny- 
goat,  Jack  owned  two  pet  rabbits,  for  he  had 
that  kindly  sort  of  a  way  with  him,  that  he 
had  a  grah  for  little  wee  birds  an'  bastes,  an* 
the  little  wee  birds  and  bastes,  too,  was  jist 
every  bit  as  fond  o*  him.  For,  by  the  same 


254     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

token,  Jack  had  a  wee  whistle  on  a  runnin'- 
string  fastened  into  his  weskit-pocket  an* 
buttonhole,  same  as  you  or  me  'ud  carry  a 
watch  an'  chain,  an'  whin  Jack  would  put 
the  whistle  into  his  mouth  an'  blow  it,  there 
wasn't  a  bird  of  any  sort  or  description 
within  a  mile  o'  ground  that  wouldn't  come 
whish!  flyin'  in  a  sthring  after  the  other  like 
a  railway  thrain,  an'  light  all  over  him  an' 
about  him,  waitin'  to  be  fed,  for  he  had  them 
all  as  tame  as  chickens,  feedin'  them  day  an' 
daily  from  he  was  no  height;  an'  they'd  perch 
on  his  hands  an'  arms  an'  head,  an'  all  roun' 
him,  without  bein'  in  the  laste  taste  afeerd. 
The  cabin  that  Jack  an'  his  ould  mother 
lived  in  was  built  on  the  main  road  to  Dub- 
lin, where,  of  course,  there  was  no  end  of 
genthry  an'  nobility  rowlin'  by  in  their  car- 
riages day  af ther  day  as  sure  as  ever  the  sun 
rose.  An'  it  happened  that  wan  day  the 
Lord  High  Mayor  of  Dublin  an'  his  shoot 
was  passin'  by  Jack's  an'  his  ould  mother's 
wee  hut,  on  his  way  back  to  Dublin  from  a 
visit  he  was  afther  payin'  to  a  second  an' 
third  cousin  of  his  (by  his  mother's  side)  in 
the  Black  North;  an'  just  as  he  was  passin' 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor  255 

Jack's  an'  his  ould  mother's  hut  what  would 
ye  have  of  it,  but  wasn't  me  hrave  Jack  just 
at  that  very  minnit  puttin'  the  whistle  in 
his  mouth  to  call  the  little  wee  birds  to  their 
mait,  an'  when  the  Lord  High  Mayor  he 
hears  the  whistle  he  ordhers  the  coachman 
to  pull  up,  bethinkin'  that  it  was  on  himself 
Jack  was  whistlin';  but  there,  lo  and  behould 
ye!  afore  ye  could  say  "  thrapsticks,"  there 
the  very  sky  itself  was  a'most  darkened  with 
the  dhroves  of  birds  that  come  helther-skel- 
ther  from  all  the  hedges  an'  ditches,  woods 
an'  scrugs  aroun',  an'  gathers  roun'  Jack,  an' 
lights  atop  o'  him,  an'  atop  o'  everything 
round  about,  some  o'  them  even  havin'  the 
very  impidence  to  light  on  the  Lord  High 
Mayor's  own  carriage.  Faix,  the  Lord  High 
Mayor  he  opened  his  eyes  at  this,  an' — 

"  The  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  ye,  Jack,  me 
man,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  sez  he  to 
him,  be  raison  there  wasn't  maybe  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  in  Dublin  didn't  know  Jack 
like  his  own  left  han',  bekase  of  his  livin' 
on  the  main  road  side,  that  way,  where  they 
were  always  passin'  back  an'  forrid. 

"  The  tip-top  o'  the  blissid  mornin'  to  yer- 


256     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

self,  me  Lord  High  Mayorship,"  sez  he,  "  it's 
gran'  yer  honour's  lookin'  this  mornin',  an' 
might  I  make  bould  to  ax  afther  the  health 
o'  the  Missis  Lord  High  Mayor?  I  hope 
she's  purty  fine,"  sez  Jack. 

"The  Missis  Lord  High  Mayor,  Jack," 
sez  he,  "is  as  healthy  as  a  throut,  thank 
you.  Her  lungs  is  as  sthrong  as  ever,  an' 
so  is  her  fist,  an'  atween  yerself  an'  me  an' 
the  wall,  Jack,"  sez  he,  "  ye  may  thank  the 
Lord  you're  not  the  Misther  Lord  High 
Mayor,"  sez  he,  "  or  you'd  know  that  to  yer 
cost.  But  about  that  whistle  o'  yours,  Jack, 
it's  a  wonderful  one  entirely,  an'  I'd  like  to 
bargain  with  ye  for  it.  How  does  it  come 
that  it  has  that  wondherful  power  over  the 
birds?" 

"  Och,"  sez  Jack,  sez  he,  seein'  his  oppor- 
tunity o'  turnin'  a  few  pounds  at  the  Lord 
High  Mayor's  cost.  "  Och,"  sez  he,  "  there's 
a  vartue  in  that  whistle,  that  when  I  sound 
it  there's  no  feathered  bird  of  any  kind 
within  two-an'-twinty  mile  o'  where  it  is 
sounded  but  must  come  at  the  call.  It  was 
a  blin'  beggarman,"  sez  he,  for  Jack  was 
good  at  makin'  histhories — "it  was  a  blin' 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor  257 

beggarman,"  sez  he,  "  that  died  in  me 
great-great-gran'father's  house,  an'  left  that 
whistle  to  me  great-great-gran'father  as  a 
last  bequist  for  lettin'  him  die  undher  their 
roof,  an'  it  has  been  handed  down  from 
father  to  son  since,"  sez  he.  "  Och  it's  a 
wondherful  great  cur'osity  entirely,"  sez 
Jack,  "an'  me  father,  whin  he  was  dyin', 
warned  me  nivir  to  part  it." 

"  Oh,  but,"  says  the  Lord  High  Mayor, 
"  ye're  a  poor  man,  Jack,  an'  money,"  sez  he, 
"  would  do  ye  betther  good  any  day  nor  the 
whistle.  I'll  give  ye,"  sez  he,  "ten  pounds 
for  it." 

"  I'm  very  thankful  to  yer  Lord  High 
Mayorship,"  sez  Jack,  sez  he,  "but  I 
wouldn't  part  it  on  no  tarms." 

"  Come,  Jack,  be  manly,"  sez  the  Lord 
High  Mayor,  "an'  I  don't  care  if  I  give  ye 
a  score  o'  pounds  for  it,"  sez  he. 

"No  use,  me  lord,"  sez  Jack,  "I  don't 
want  to  part  it,  an'  less  nor  fifty  pounds 
wouldn't  purchase  it." 

"  Done  then,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor, 
"I'll  give  ye  fifty  pounds  for  it,"  sez  he, 
openin'  his  weskit  and  pullin'  the  purse  out 


258     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

of  the  inside  pocket,  an'  countin'  down  on 
the  earraige  sait  two  score  an'  ten  shinin' 
goold  sovereigns. 

"  There  ye  are  now,  Jack,"  sez  he,  raiehin' 
Jack  the  money,  "  an'  that's  the  dearest 
whistle,"  sez  he,  "  ever  I  paid  for." 

"  Ye're  not  half  as  loth  to  give  it,  let  me 
tell  you,"  sez  Jack,  "as  I  am  to  part  me 
whistle,  that  has  been  a  hair-loom  in  the 
family  for  up'ards  of  two  hundred  years." 

So  the  Lord  High  Mayor  took  the  whistle 
an'  dhrove  off  to  Dublin,  chucklin'  to  him- 
self at  the  dead  chape  bargain  he  got,  an* 
how  he  fooled  Jack,  an'  he  scarce  let  bite 
or  sup  cross  his  lips  when  he  got  into  Dublin 
till  he  run  round  all  the  naybours'  houses 
showin'  the  whistle,  an'  tellin'  the  exthraor- 
nary  great  vartue  of  it  entirely.  An'  the 
Lord  High  Mayor's  wondherful  whistle  was 
soon  the  whole  talk  o'  Dublin  from  one  end 
o'  the  street  to  the  other.  An'  then  the 
Lord  High  Mayor  give  out  a  great  day  for 
showin'  the  merits  o'  the  whistle,  an'  he 
hired  one  o'  the  biggest  lofts  in  Dublin  for 
the  occasion,  an'  charged  so  much  a  head 
for  gettin'  in,  from  tuppence  up,  accordin* 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor    259 

to  their  size  an'  daicency,  an'  every  one  come 
was  to  fetch  their  cage-birds  with  them — be 
raison  there's  no  wild  birds  in  Dublin  to 
practice  on.  So  on  that  day — an'  a  grate 
day  entirely  it  was — you  wouldn't  think 
there  was  one,  gentle  or  simple,  in  Dublin 
that  didn't  turn  up  there,  every  one  with 
his  cage  over  his  shoulder  or  under  his  arm, 
an'  when  they  were  all  in,  an'  the  loft  was 
a'most  crammed  full, 

"  Now,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  sez  he, 
displayin'  his  whistle,  "  I'm  goin'  to  show 

• 

yez  the  exthra-or-nary  powers  of  this  won- 
dherful  little  article.  Yez  will  kindly  open 
the  windows,  an'  then  openin'  the  doors  of 
your  cages,"  sez  he,  "  let  yer  birds  go  free. 
Afther  they  have  got  time  to  be  away  a  re- 
spectable distance  from  the  house,  then  I'll 
blow  this  whistle,  and  yez  'ill  behould  the 
astonishin'  sight  of  every  mother's  sowl  o* 
them  birds  comin'  back  all  together  like 
Brown's  cows,  an'  crowdin'  in  o'  the  windows 
again  to  yez,  when  they'll  be  every  one  o' 
them  as  tame  as  tomcats,  an'  yez  will  then 
kindly  catch  them  an'  put  them  back  into  yer 
cages  again,  the  people  with  ondifferent  van- 


260     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

eties  of  birds  takin'  care  not  to  get  their 
naybour's  bird  into  their  cages  by  mistake 
for  their  own.  Then  yez  can  thank  me  an' 
go  home/'  sez  he,  windin'  up  the  norration 
with  a  great  bow. 

Up  then  went  the  windies,  an*  open  flew 
the  doors  of  the  cages,  an'  out  wint  thrishes, 
blackbirds,  paycocks,  parrots,  larks,  jinny- 
wrans,  an'  canary-birds,  besides  siveral  birds 
of  great  value  an'  scarcity,  with  no  names  on 
thim,  that  had  come  from  furrin  parts,  an' 
was  rackoned  worth  their  weight  in  goold. 
Out  they  all  flew,  an'  once  away  an'  eye  away, 
they  weren't  long  showin'  a  clean  pair  o' 
heels  over  the  roofs  o'  the  houses,  an'  it 
was  long  an'  many  a  year  since  such  a  gath- 
erin'  o'  birds  darkened  Dublin  town  afore.  To 
pass  the  time,  then,  an'  give  the  birds  time 
to  get  off  far  enough  afore  he'd  call  them 
back,  the  Lord  High  Mayor  commenced 
crackin'  jokes  an'  reharsin'  dhroll  passages 
that  he  fell  in  with  when  he  was  away  on 
his  visit  in  the  North,  puttin'  the  company 
into  stitches  laughin' — for  he  was  a  dhroll 
lad  in  his  way,  was  the  same  Lord  High 
Mayor,  an'  was  no  miss  at  reharsin'  a  story. 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor    261 

But  well  and  good,  the  birds  was  long 
enough  away  at  last  to  show  the  wounderful 
powers  that  he  b'leeved  to  be  in  the  little 
whistle,  so  puttin'  the  whistle  up  to  his  lips, 

"  Now,  boys,"  sez  he,  "  will  yez  kindly 
stand  back  a  bit  farther  from  the  windies, 
an'  give  the  little  animals  room  to  get  in. 
There's  a  big  body  o'  them,  an'  they  must 
get  a  little  more  room  nor  that,  or  they  won't 
be  able  to  show  in  at  all,  at  all,"  sez  he, 
"stand  back,  boys,  stand  back.  Police- 
man," sez  he  to  a  policeman  was  there,  "  do 
you  see  an'  keep  ordher  there,  and  help  to 
keep  the  crowd  back  a  thrifle  from  the  win- 
dies.  That's  right — that's  you." 

An'  then  he  ins  with  the  whistle  into  his 
mouth  and  blew  a  good  stout,  strong  blow  o' 
the  whistle.  "Now,  boys,"  sez  he,  "now, 
boys,  prepare  an'  lookout,  they'll  be  here  in 
a  jiffey." 

Then  the  crowd  was  all  on  their  tip-toes, 
an'  houldin'  in  their  breaths,  an'  shovin'  out 
their  eyes  to  catch  the  first  gleek  o'  the  birds 
comin'  back.  They  were  this  way  for  full 
two  minnits,  an'  still  no  sign  o'  the  birds. 
The  Lord  High  Mayor  himself  began  to  look 


262     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

a  thrifle  unaisy,  ye  would  think,  an'  he  looked 
out  iv  the  windy. 

"  I  b'leeve,  boys,"  sez  he,  "  they'll  be  here 
immaidiately.  It's  their  time  now;  watch 
hard  and  yez'll  see  them  comin'." 

So  the  boys  watched  harder  than  afore;  an' 
they'd  see  things  in  the  distance,  an'  say, 
"There  they  are!"  "No."  "What's  yon 
now?"  "It's  a  dhirty  shirt  the  wind's  tos- 
sin'  over  the  house."  "  Here  they  come." 
"  Ay,  this  is  them."  "  It's  a  lie."  "  It  is." 
"It  is  not."  "You're  a  liar."  "You're 
another."  "Do  ye  want  ye're  jaw  splint- 
hered?"  " There  they  are  at  last."  "It's 
not  them."  "  It  is  them."  "  I'll  knock  yer 
two  eyes  into  wan."  "  What's  yon  black 
thing  now?"  "It's  a  lawyer's  sowl  that 
died  at  the  town  end,  last  night."  "  Hur- 
rooh!  here  they  are  now! "  "  Nobbut,  is  it 
them?  "  "  No,  the  divil  a  feather  o'  them 
yet."  "  They're  not  goin'  to  come  at  all, 
lads."  "They  are."  "  They're  not."  "Shut 
yer  mouth,  or  ye  won't  see  them  if  they  do 
come."  "They'll  not  come."  "Our  birds 
is  lost,  boys."  "  We'll  nivir  see  the  sight  o* 
them  more."  "  Give  it  up,  boys,  the  Lord 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   263 

Mayor  has  made  Tom-fools  o'  yez." 
"Throth  an'  he'll  pay  for  it  if  he  has." 
"Ruffian!"  "Villain!"  " Scoundhril! " 

"Aisy,  aisy,  lads,"  sez  the  Lord  High 
Mayor,  sez  he,  the  colour  o'  the  white  wall 
wit  fright — "Aisy,  aisy,  boys,  an'  I'll  fetch 
yez  back  yer  birds,  don't  fear.  Just  let  me 
give  one  other  whistle  out  o'  the  windy,  an* 
yez'll  not  be  able  to  cage  them  as  fast  as 
they  fly  in,"  sez  he.  "They  mustn't  have 
heard  that  last  whistle  I  gave.  But,  I'll  en- 
gage ye,  they'll  hear  this  one."  An'  puttin* 
his  head  right  out  o'  the  windy,  to  give  the 
birds  no  excuse,  he  blew  with  a  vingince. 

"  Now,  me  lads,"  sez  he,  dhrawin'  himself 
in,  "  look  out  for  yer  birds." 

But,  mavrone,  he  might  as  well  have  told 
them  to  look  out  for  the  sky  to  fall,  for  the 
sorra  a  sign  o'  the  birds  appeared.  An'  then 
the  Lord  High  Mayor  whistled  out  o'  every 
other  windy  o'  the  house,  laist  there  should 
be  spells  on  some  o'  them,  an'  then  went  out 
an'  whistled  at  the  four  corners  o'  the  house, 
but  it  was  all  o'  no  use,  whatsomever.  The 
dickens  a  bird  or  bird  would  come  next  or 
near  him.  The  whole  crowd  b'leeved  now 


264     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

that  the  Lord  High  Mayor  had  been  thryin' 
to  get  up  a  good  laugh  at  their  expense,  an' 
they  got  outragus  entirely,  an'  small 
wondher. 

There  was  naither  houldin'  nor  tyinj  o* 
them  till  they'd  get  at  the  Lord  High  Mayor, 
an'  not  lave  two  pieces  o'  him  together,  an' 
make  him  laugh  at  the  wrong  side  o'  his 
mouth.  An'  there  was  got  up  the  greatest 
royot,  that  the  likes  o'  it  was  niver  seen  in 
Dublin  afore  or  sence,  an'  only  for  the  Lord 
High  Mayor's  sojers  an'  polis  sur-roundin' 
him,  an'  convayin'  him  home,  batin'  off  the 
mob  with  their  bare  naked  swords,  there'd 
hev'  been  a  story  to  tell  that  day.  An'  then 
the  Lord  High  Mayor  had  to  pay  every  man- 
jack  that  their  bird  went  away,  for  his  bird, 
an'  a  nice  penny  he  was  out  o'  his  pocket 
when  all  was  settled. 

"Well,  be  this  an'  be  that,  an'  be  the 
crutch  o'  the  cruked  waiver,"  sez  he,  when 
all  was  fixed  up  an'  blown  over,  "  if  I  don't 
make  that  scoundhril  Jack  pay  for  this  busi- 
ness I'm  not  the  man  I  took  meself  for,"  sez 
he;  an'  ordherin'  out  a  rajiment  of  his  sojers, 
off  he  starts  with  them  to  go  an'  take  me 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   265 

brave  Jack  pres'ner.  But,  by  the  boots,  as 
they  come  along  the  main  road  torst  Jack's 
house,  doesn't  Jack  eye  them,  an'  well  he 
knew  what  was  up  with  them.  So  Jack  had 
a  little  pet  rabbit  runnin'  about  the  house, 
an'  he  sez  to  his  ould  mother:  "  Mother,"  sez 
he,  "  I  notice  the  Lord  High  Mayor  o'  Dub- 
lin an'  his  sojers  comin'  along  the  road  there, 
an'  when  they  come  this  far,  the  Lord  High 
Mayor  'ill  come  in  an'  ax  for  me.  Then 
you're  to  say  that  I'm  not  at  home — that 
I'm  gone  to  Scotlan',  but  that  if  his  business 
is  any  way  purtikler  ye'll  soon  have  me  here. 
Then  ye'll  catch  the  little  rabbit,"  sez  he, 
"  by  the  ear,  an'  tell  it  to  fetch  Jack  home 
from  Scotlan';  give  it  a  wee  tig  of  a  rod  then 
that'll  make  it  run  out  o'  the  door,  an'  that's 
all  ye've  got  to  do."  Jack's  ould  mother 
promised  she'd  do  this,  an'  Jack  went  out 
an'  disappeared  behind  the  house.  Faix  it 
wasn't  long  his  shadow  was  aff  the  threshel, 
when  who  steps  in  as  sthraight  as  a  ribbon, 
an'  lookin'  as  proud  as  a  prence,  but  me  Lord 
High  Mayor,  an'  he  sez,  sez  he,  steppin*  up 
the  floor  like  a  drum-major,  he  sez,  sez  he: 
"  I'm  very  desirable,  madam,"  he  sez,  usin' 


266     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

grate  English — "  I'm  very  desirable,"  he  sez, 
"  madam,  to  hould  a  few  minutes'  councilta- 
tion  with  your  son  Jack.  Is  he  inside,  or 
within?"  sez  he. 

"My  son  Jack,"  sez  Jack's  ould  mother, 
sez  she,  "  took  a  run  over  to  Scotlan'  two 
days  ago,  an'  isn't  to  be  back  for  a  week," 
sez  she;  "  but  if  it's  very  great  business,  sure 
I  can  have  him  here  in  a  couple  of  minutes." 

"  Well,  I  should  say,"  sez  he,  "  that  it  is 
very  grate  business  entirely — no  less  than  a 
matter  of  life  an'  death.  But  it  puts  me 
undher  a  puzzle  all  the  same,"  sez  he,  "to 
know,  if  yer  son  Jack  wint  to  Scotland,  how 
ye  could  have  him  here  in  a  couple  of 
minutes." 

"Faix,  then,"  sez  she,  "I'll  soon  take  ye 
out  o'  yer  puzzle-atation.  Jack  has  got  a 
little  pet  rabbit  here  that's  very  convanient 
that  way;  an'  no  matther  what  quarther  of 
the  known  world  the  man's  in  that  ye  want, 
even  as  far  as  Chanay  or  Connaught,  the 
little  rabbit  will  have  him  here  in  a  jiffey," 
sez  she. 

An'  with  that,  Jack's  ould  mother  catches 
the  rabbit  by  the  ear  an'  give  it  to  undher- 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   267 

stand  that  she  wanted  it  to  fetch  Jack  out 
of  Scotland  immediately  without  no  delay, 
for  there  was  a  jintleman  here  wantin'  to  see 
him  on  very  purtickler  business.  Then,  she 
gave  the  rabbit  a  tig  of  the  rod,  which,  of 
course,  made  the  rabbit  bounce  an*  away  out 
o'  the  house.  Jack  wasn't,  maybe,  more  nor 
three  sparrow-hops  away  from  the  back  of 
the  house,  lying  hid  behind  a  knowe,  with 
his  belly  to  the  sun;  an'  the  poor  rabbit,  as 
it  always  did  in  its  disthresses,  made  for  Jack, 
an'  Jack  started  up  an'  walks  into  the  house, 
with  the  rabbit  cantherin'  at  his  heels.  Well, 
my  sawnies,  the  Lord  High  Mayor  was  more 
nor  a  bit  surprised  at  this  mericle,  but  he 
held  his  tongue,  for  he  said  to  himself  that 
little  animal,  if  he  only  could  come  by  him 
cheap  enough,  would  be  an  akisition  that 
he'd  give  a  dale  to  have. 

"Arrah,  good  mornin',  me  Lord  High 
Mayor,"  sez  Jack.  "  It's  proud  I  am  to  see 
ye.  How  is  the  Missis  Lord  High  Mayor,  an' 
the  young  Lord  High  Mayors?  Ye'll  have 
to  excuse  me  bein'  a  bit  out  of  breath,  for 
that  rabbit  took  me  away  in  a  hurry,  just  as 
I  was  in  the  middle  of  a  hearty  good  break- 


268     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

wist  in  Scotlan'.  What  might  yer  Lord  High 
Mayorship  be  wantin'  o'  me?" 

So  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  keepin'  one  eye 
on  Jack  and  two  on  the  rabbit,  starts  an' 
tells  him  the  mess  Jack  landed  him  into  re- 
gardin'  the  whistle,  an'  axed  him  what  he'd 
got  to  say  for  himself,  for  he  had  the  sojers 
just  outside  ready  to  carry  him  off  to  be 
hung. 

"  Me  Lord  High  Mayor/'  sez  Jack,  sez  he, 
"  are  ye  quite  positive  sartain  that  ye  said 
'  Whistle,  whistle,  do  yer  work,  for  I  com- 
mand ye/  three  times  afore  ye  blew — as  I 
tould  ye,  when  I  sold  ye  it?  " 

"  Go  long,  ye  blaguard,"  sez  he.  "  Ye 
nivir  tould  me  nothin'  of  the  sort,  an',  of 
course,  I  didn't  do  it." 

"  I  nivir  tould  ye  nothin'  o'  the  sort!  "  sez 
Jack,  all  taken  by  surprise,  if  it  was  true  for 
him — "  I  nivir  tould  ye  nothin'  o'  the  sort! 
Well,  plague  on  me,  but  it's  just  like  the 
misfortunate  numbskull  that  I  am,  to  nivir 
tell  ye  that.  Och,  then,  when  ye  didn't  use 
them  words  it  was  no  more  use  nor  a  common 
penny  whistle.  Plague  take  me,  but  I'm  the 
stupid  omadhaun  out  an'  out  entirely!  Any- 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor    269 

thing  in  me  power  I  can  do  to  recompinsate 
ye,  me  Lord  High  Mayor/'  sez  Jack,  sez  he, 
"  ye  have  only  to  mintion  it  an'  it's  done." 

"Well,  Jack,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor, 
"  it  would  be  next  to  onpossible  to  recompin- 
sate me  for  all  the  vexation,  not  to  mintion 
the  expince,  at  all,  at  all,  that  whistle  cost 
me.  Stillan'ever,  I'm  not  disposed  to  be  too 
harsh  on  ye,  seem'  ye  have  an'  ould  mother 
to  support,  so  I'll  only  ax  ye  make  me  a 
present  of  that  little  rabbit  ye  have  runnin* 
about  there.  He  might  come  in  useful  to 
me." 

"Oh,  is  it  that  little  rabbit,"  sez  Jack. 
"  Oh,  me  Lord  High  Mayor,  don't  ax  that. 
Ax  anything  else  but  that — I  couldn't  part 
that  little  rabbit  at  all,  at  all,  he's  so  on- 
common  useful  to  me.  Oh,  ye'll  have  to  ax 
some  other  requist — any  at  all  undher  the 
sun  but  that,"  sez  Jack,  for  he  seen  be  his 
eye  that  the  Lord  High  Mayor  had  set  his 
heart  in  the  rabbit.  "  Oh,  anything  at  all, 
only  that,  yer  Lord  High  Mayorship,"  sez 
Jack. 

"  Well,"  sez  he,  "  if  ye  don't  like  to  part 
it  for  nothin' — though  a  rajiment  of  rabbits 


270     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

wouldn't  railly  be  enough  to  recompinsate 
me  for  what  ye've  cost  me,  yerself  an'  yer 
infarnal  whistle — why  then  put  a  price  on 
it/'  sez  he. 

"  Well,"  eez  Jack,  sez  he,  "  I  wouldn't  part 
with  that  little  animal  for  all  the  goold  in 
the  King's  cellars,  but  seem'  it's  yerself  is  in 
it,  an'  seem'  that  ye  did  lose  by  my  little 
mistake  in  forgettin'  to  give  ye  proper  dirac- 
tion — seein',  I  say,  ye  did  come  to  a  loss 
through  me,  I  never  had  it  in  me  to  see  any 
man  wronged  on  my  account,  or  through  any 
fault  of  mine;  so,  I  don't  care  though  I  do 
lose  by  the  transaction — just  count  down  a 
hundred  guineas  there,  an'  the  haste's  yours." 

"A  hundred  guineas!  a  hundred  fiddle- 
sticks! "  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor.  "  Is  it 
a  common  barefaced  robber  ye  want  to  make 
yerself?  "  sez  he. 

"  Oh,  all  right,  all  right,  me  Lord  High 
Mayor,  there's  no  harm  done  yet — every  man 
has  his  own,  an'  then  no  man's  onsatisfied. 
I  was  goin'  to  give  ye  the  rabbit  for  a  hun- 
dred guineas  bekase  it  was  yerself  was  in  it, 
but  I'm  glad  ye  won't  take  him — I'm  very 
glad  indeed  ye  won't  take  him,"  sez  Jack, 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   271 

"  for  if  I  had  recklessly  parted  with  that  rab- 
bit for  the  money,  I'd  nivir  regretted  it  but 
wanst,  an'  that  would  'a'  been  all  the  days 
o'  my  life,"  sez  he.  "  I'm  very  glad  yer  Lord 
High  Mayorship  didn't  jump  at  the  offer." 

So,  the  long  an'  the  short  of  it  was,  Jack 
made  him  believe  so  well  that  he  was  lettin' 
the  rabbit  go  at  a  sackerfice,  an'  that  he 
would  sooner  not  let  him  go,  that  the  Lord 
High  Mayor  at  last  had  to  count  down  his 
hundred  goold  guineas  on  the  dale  table  to 
Jack;  an'  then  takin'  up  the  rabbit,  he  wint 
away  back  to  Dublin  again,  himself  an'  his 
sojers. 

"Well,  mavrone,  it  wasn't  long  till  the  Lord 
High  Mayor  had  put  it  about  all  over  Dublin, 
about  the  rare  grate  rabbit  he  had  got  en- 
tirely, an'  the  mortial  wonderful  things  it 
was  fit  for,  an'  all  Dublin  was  talkin'  of  it; 
an'  he  said  to  himself  when  they'd  witness 
the  great  doin's  of  his  rabbit,  he  would  be 
well  recompinsated  for  all  the  bad  handlin' 
an'  hard  usage  he  got  over  the  whistle.  So 
he  was  detarmined  to  lose  no  time  lettin' 
them  see  what  he  could  do  with  his  rabbit; 
an'  as  he  had  a  brother  called  Jimmy  that 


272     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

lived  in  Galway,  an'  whose  birthday  would 
come  roun'  in  a  week,  he  said  he'd  give  a 
grate  supper  in  the  market-house,  the  biggest 
house  in  Dublin,  on  that  night,  an'  Jimmy 
was  to  get  no  word  of  it  at  all,  but  when 
they'd  all  be  ready  to  sit  down  to  the  supper, 
he'd  pack  off  the  rabbit  for  Jimmy  an'  have 
him  there  at  wanst,  an'  that  would  be  the 
surprise!  So  me  brave  Lord  High  Mayor 
went  an'  ordhered  a  supper  of,  oh,  the  very 
best  of  everything  that  Dublin  could  afford, 
disregardless  of  all  expense,  for  that  night, 
an'  then  he  went  roun'  an'  axed  in  all  the 
quality,  an'  high-up  people  of  Dublin  to 
come  in  to  the  supper  in  honour  of  his 
brother  Jimmy's  birthday — nivir  remarkin* 
at  all  about  the  way  he  was  to  fetch  Jimmy 
there  that  night.  An'  sure  enough,  whin 
the  night  come,  the  market-house  was  gorjus 
with  lights  an'  illuminations;  an'  at  laist  a 
dozen  long  tables  was  spread  out,  an'  all  the 
invited  quality  come  in  coaches  an'  carriages 
an'  'bushes,  with  at  laist  four  black  horses 
in  ivery  coach,  an'  great  snobs  of  coachmen 
dhrivin'  them  with  castor-hats;  an'  whin  the 
parties  were  all  gathered,  they  were  all 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   273 

lookin'  about  an'  gapin'  about,  lookin'  out 
to  see  if  they'd  see  Jimmy,  or  where  was  he 
at  all,  at  all.  But  sarra  take  the  one  o'  them 
could  see  him,  an'  they  were  puzzled  out  an' 
out;  so  they  called  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  an' 
put  it  to  him — where  was  Mr.  Jimmy,  or 
what  had  happened  to  him  at  all  that  he 
wasn't  here  before  this? 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right/'  sez  he,  smilin'  a 
knowin'  kind  of  a  smile,  an'  wavin'  his  hand. 
"  That's  all  right,"  sez  he.  "  Whin  the  sup- 
per's ready  to  be  sarved,"  sez  he,  "  I'll  soon 
let  ye  see  Jimmy." 

They  all  wondhered  to  themselves,  what 
did  he  mean  by  the  cur'ous  smile  he  had  on 
him  when  he  said  this.  But  they  weren't 
long  under  the  mistification,  for,  no  sooner 
did  the  messenger  come  in  to  ax  the  Lord 
High  Mayor  that  the  gran'  supper  was  ready 
now  an'  would  it  be  sarved,  when  the  Lord 
High  Mayor  sayed  he  would  just  sarve  it 
immadiately,  as  soon  as  Misther  Jimmy 
would  come,  an'  he  was  goin'  to  send  for  him 
now.  The  whole  company  got  up  their  ears 
at  this,  an'  it  sthruck  them  about  the  rabbit 
they  had  heard  so  much  about,  an'  they  were 
18 


274     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

all  on  tip-toe  to  sec  the  wondherful  perform- 
ance. Then  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  he  took 
the  rabbit  out  of  a  beautiful  cage  he  had  it 
in,  an'  in  the  presence  of  the  whole  as- 
sembled company,  he  commanded  it  in  its 
ear  to  go  down  to  his  brother  Jimmy  in  Gal- 
way,  an'  fetch  him  here  immaidiately,  for 
that  a  grate  supper  was  waitin'  him.  Then 
givin'  the  rabbit  a  tig  of  his  walkin'  stick  on 
the  behind,  he  made  it  run  away  out  of  the 
door. 

"Now,  ladies  and  gintlemen,"  sez  he, 
turnin'  to  the  company,  "  ye're  about  to  see 
a  very  wonderful  performance  entirely.  My 
brother  Jimmy,  as  ye  all  know,  is  in  Galway 
this  night,  an'  doesn't  know,  no  more  than 
that  walkin'  stick  of  mine,  about  this  great 
supper  I'm  getting  up  in  his  honour.  But 
yez  have  all  heard  me  puttin'  the  ordhers," 
sez  he,  "  on  that  little  rabbit  to  fetch  him 
here;  consequentially  ye'll  see  Jimmy  comin' 
walkin'  in  o'  that  door  in  an  instant,  with 
the  little  rabbit  trottin'  behin'  him  at  his 
heels,"  sez  he. 

Well,  of  course,  the  whole  company,  all 
the  great  tip-top  ladies  an'  jintlemen  of  the 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   275 

town  of  Dublin,  they  were  all  wondherfully 
amazed  at  this.  An'  they  were  all  standin' 
tippy-toes  at  once,  watchin'  the  door  to  see 
the  quare  sight  of  Jimmy  an'  the  rabbit 
comin'  in,  all  the  way  from  Galway.  They 
waited  this  way  five  minutes,  an'  the  mes- 
senger come  back  to  ax  the  Lord  High  Mayor 
if  he'd  sarve  the  supper  now. 

"Just  immaidiately  —  immaidiately,  my 
man,"  sez  he,  lookin'  at  his  watch.  "  Jimmy 
has  time  to  be  here  now,  an'  the  minute  he 
comes  you'll  sarve  the  supper." 

Still,  be  me  song,  there  was  no  Jimmy 
puttin'  in  an  appearance,  an'  the  company 
had  their  necks  strained  watchin'.  Afther 
another  five  minutes  the  man  come  back 
again  to  say  "the  supper  was  coolin'.  No 
odds — no  supper  dar'  be  sarved,  the  Lord 
High  Mayor  said,  till  Jimmy  comes,  an'  he'd 
be  here  just  now.  But,  be  the  toss  o'  war, 
it  was  plain  to  be  seen  he  was  gettin'  a 
thrifle  onaisy,  an'  when,  afther  another 
quarther  of  an  hour,  the  man  come  in  an' 
sayed  the  supper  was  as  cowld  as  charity, 
faith  the  Lord  High  Mayor  he  knocked  him 
down  wit'  vexation,  an'  he  started  out  to  look 


276     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

for  the  rabbit.  An'  soon  afther,  when  there 
was  no  sign  of  him  comin'  back  aither,  an' 
the  supper  got  past  takin'  entirely,  faix  the 
company  begun  to  get  up  their  dandher  wit' 
their  stomachs  achin',  seein'  that  most  of 
them  didn't  cut  mait  for  four-an'-twinty 
hours  afore,  as  they  wanted  to  have  plinty 
of  room  for  the  gran'  supper — faix  their 
dandher  begun  to  get  up,  an'  afther  they 
passed  some  ugly  remarks  not  nowise  com- 
plimenthary  to  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  who 
had  now  made  a  purty  fool  an'  town  talk  o' 
them  twicet  over,  they  started  off  hot  foot 
to  look  for  the  Lord  High  Mayor  himself, 
till  they  would  taich  him  a  lesson  he  wouldn't 
be  likely  to  forget.  But  the  Lord  High 
Mayor,  who  was  runnin'  the  sthreets  like  a 
lunatic  axin'  afther  his  rabbit,  got  word 
of  this,  an'  only  he  raiched  his  own  house 
in  time,  an'  locked  an'  barred  an'  bolted 
all,  an'  kept  within  doors  for  betther  nor  a 
week,  he'd  'a'  been  a  sorry  man,  let  me  tell 
you. 

But  when  it  was  all  settled  up  again,  an* 
the  Lord  High  Mayor  had  shown  how  he 
was  swindled  himself,  far  more  an'  far  worse 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor    277 

nor  them,  they  give  him  pardon,  an'  he  got 
free  once  more.  An'  when  he  was  free: 

"  Well,  be  this  an'  be  that,  an'  be  the 
other  thing,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  "  if 
I  don't  make  that  scoundhril  Jack  pay  for 
this,"  sez  he,  "  it's  not  day  yet.  That's 
twicet  the  conscionless  knave  has  robbed  an' 
thricked  me,  but,  by  Jimminy!  he'll  not  do 
it  the  third  time.  I'll  ardher  out  me  sojers," 
sez  he,  "  an'  I'll  go  to  his  house  an'  saize  on 
him,  the  blaguard;  an'  I'll  fetch  him  here, 
an'  hang,  an'  dhraw,  an'  quarther  him,  for 
the  addification  of  the  Dublineers — an' 
that'll  be  the  proper  way  to  thrait  the 
wratch,"  sez  he. 

So,  ordherin'  out  his  sojers  once  more,  off 
again  he  started  wit'  them  for  Jack's  house, 
detarmined  to  have  Jack  wit'  him  this  time, 
whither  or  how,  be  hook  or  be  crook. 

As  the  Lord  High  Mayor  an'  his  sojers 
come  along  doesn't  me  brave  Jack  again  eye 
them,  an'  right  well  the  rascal  knew  their 
arrand.  So  puttin'  his  ould  mother  into  bed, 
he  filled  a  bladdher  with  bullock's  blood  an' 
tied  it  roun'  his  mother's  neck.  Then  he 
sat  down  by  the  hearth  just  to  wait  till  they'd 


278     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

come.  An'  he  wasn't  long  sittin'  till  the 
thramp!  thramp!  comes  up  to  the  main  road 
torst  Jack's  house,  an'  in  walks  me  Lord 
High  Mayor  up  the  floor,  far  straighter  and 
prouder,  you'd  think,  than  ever  he  was. 

"Arrah,  begorra,"  sez  Jack,  sez  he,  run- 
nin'  to  him  with  hoth  hands  out,  "but  it's 
the  welcome  sight  for  me  to  see  yer  Lord 
High  Mayorship,  an'  but  it's  meself  is  both 
plaised  an'  proud  to  see  ye;  for,  would  ye 
b'lieve  it,  ye  were  the  very  idantical  man  I 
was  thinkin'  about — yerself  an'  the  Missis 
Lord  High  Mayor.  Sure  I  hope  an'  thrust 
in  Providence  it's  right  well  an'  hearty  she 
is,  both  herself  an'  the  young  Lord  High 
Mayors — I  hope  they're  all  as  well  as  I'd 
wish  them;  an'  may  the  Lord  in  His  bounties 
always  keep  them  so.  Won't  yer  Lord  High 
Mayorship  dhraw  forrid  this  sate  to  the  fire, 
an'  sit  down  on  it,  an'  take  a  wee  hate  of  the 
fire,  such  as  it  is,  an'  it's  just  poor  enough — 
a  sort  of  mixed,  middlin',  like  a  man  comin' 
out  o'  the  faver — for  the  thurf,  thanks  be 
to  God  for  all  his  marcies,  wasn't  just  as 
plentiful  this  year  as  we'd  wish  them.  I 
thrust  yez  isn't  anyway  ill  off  for  thurf  in  the 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor    279 

town  now — or,  sure  if  yer  Lord  High  Mayor- 
ship  was  disthressed  for  a  grain  of  thurf  to 
make  the  dhrap  o'  tay  for  the  Missis  Lord 
High  Mayor  an'  the  young  Lord  High  Mayors 
in  the  mornin',  why,  if  you'd  sen'  a  man  out 
to  me  with  a  creel,  I'd — I'd — I'd  show  him 
a  stack  where  he  could  stale  plinty." 

"  Will  ye,  for  heaven's  sake,"  sez  the  Lord 
High  Mayor,  "  stop  that  tongue  of  yours  that 
goes  like  a  hand-hell.  Don't  give  me  any 
more  o'  yer  palaverin',  for  I  don't  want  none 
of  it — it's  too  much  of  it,  to  me  own  loss, 
comes  me  way — I'm  come  here,  ye  notorious 
scoundhril  ye,"  sez  he,  "  with  me  sojers  to 
take  ye  off  to  Dublin,  where  I'll  hang,  dhraw, 
an'  quarther  ye,  for  an  example,"  sez  he, 
commencin'  an'  norratin'  to  him  all  happened 
to  him  over  the  head  o'  the  rabbit. 

"  Oh,  well,  me  Lord  High  Mayor,"  sez 
Jack,  "sure  the  divil  of  it  is  that  meself 
an'  me  poor  ould  mother  made  the  gran'  mis- 
take of  forgettin'  to  give  ye  the  wee  rod  we 
iised  to  strike  it  with,  for  none  other  would 
do!" 

"Come,  come  along,"  sez  he,  "ye  bla- 
guard,  an'  give  me  no  more  o'  yer  nadiums. 


280     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

Don't  think  ye  can  take  me  in  that  way, 
more.  Come  along,"  sez  he,  "  come  along." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  I  must  go,"  sez  Jack,  "  I 
can't  go  away  an'  laive  me  poor  sick  an'  help- 
less ould  mother  in  bed  there  to  parish  of 
hunger.  Betther  for  me  do  for  her  at  once," 
sez  he,  takin'  up  a  big  knife,  an'  plungin'  it 
down  into  the  bed,  pertendin'  it  was  into  his 
mother,  moryah,  but  Jack  knew  well  it  was 
into  the  bladdher  he  put  the  knife,  an'  there, 
behould,  up  spurts  the  big  sthraim  of  blood, 
an'  more  blood  commenced  flowin'  out  o'  the 
bed  an'  over  the  floor,  an'  the  ould  mother 
give  a  groan  an'  stiffened  out  all  as  one  she 
was  dead. 

"  Och,  ye  natarnal  murdherin'  villian 
ye!  "  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  sez  he,  when 
he  seen  what  Jack  had  done — "ye  natarnal 
murdherin'  villain  ye!  ye  have  fixed  yerself 
now  anyhow — murdherin'  yer  poor  ould 
mother.  Oh,  ye  notorious  reprobate!  it's 
burned  and  beheaded  ye'll  be  now,  besides 
bein'  hanged,  dhrawn,  an'  quarthered,"  sez 
he,  "for  Christian  daith  is  too  good  for  a 
ruffin  of  yer.  sort." 

"  Oh,  aisy,  me  Lord  High  Mayor,"  sez  Jack, 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor    281 

"  take  it  aisy,  man.  If  it  matters  that  much 
about  a  dying  ould  woman  that  couldn't  live 
long  anyhow,  sure  we'll  fetch  her  back  to 
life  again  if  it  gives  ye  any  plaisement." 

"  Go  along,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor, 
"  ye  couldn't  do  that." 

"  Couldn't  I,  though  ?  "  sez  Jack.  "  We'll 
soon  see  about  whether  I  can  or  no."  So 
climbin'  up  to  the  l)ak  of  the  roof,  he  takes 
down  a  cow's  horn  out  of  it,  and  no  sooner 
did  he  blow  the  blast,  than  his  mother,  that 
was  all  as  one  as  dead,  jumped  up  in  the  bed, 
as  well  as  ever. 

"  Well,  that  bates  me!  "  sez  the  Lord  High 
Mayor,  when  he  saw  this.  "  That's  a  most 
wondherful  thing,"  sez  he.  "An'  a  most 
wondherful  horn  entirely." 

"  Wondherful,  is  it?  "  sez  Jack.  "  Arrah, 
good  luck  to  yer  wit,  if  ye  were  livin'  with 
meself  an'  me  ould  mother  here  long,"  sez 
he,  "  ye  wouldn't  make  much  wondher  of  it. 
There  isn't  that  day  ever  the  sun  rises  that 
she  doesn't  displaise  me  somehow  or  other, 
for  ould  people,  ye  know,  is  very  cantankrus, 
an'  there's  no  livin'  wit'  them.  So,  every 
time  she  puts  me  out  in  me  timper  it  works 


282     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

me  to  kill  her,  an'  I  just  stick  that  knife  in 
her,  an'  by  an'  by  when  I  cool  down  an'  gets 
out  o'  my  anger,  I  just  take  down  the  horn 
an'  blow  in  it,  an'  then  we  live  as  happy  as 
ye  plaise  till  the  nixt  day.  I  find  it  very 
aisin'  on  me  entirely  to  be  able  to  kill  her 
that  way  now  an'  again,"  sez  he. 

"  Well,  throgs,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor, 
"  I  have  an  ould  woman  that  way  at  home — 
the  missis,"  sez  he,  "  an'  she  has  got  her 
share  of  a  tongue,  an'  like  most  women,  too, 
she  knows  the  use  of  it;  and  there's  times 
that  way  an'  I'd  give  a  good  dale  to  be  able 
to  take  her  life.  An'  moreover,  nor  that, 
too,"  sez  he,  "  the  sarvints  I  have  got  would 
brak  the  timper  of  a  saint  if  it  was  made  of 
wrought  steel,"  sez  he,  "an'  it  comes  over 
me  that  way,  too,  many's  a  time,  to  have  one 
of  their  lives,  an'  I  know  it  would  give  me 
grate  aise  to  kill  one  o'  them  back  an'  forrid, 
if  I  could  only  fetch  him  to  life  again.  I 
don't  care,  Jack,"  sez  he,  "if  I  let  ye  off 
this  time  with  yer  life,  if  ye  give  me  that 
horn,"  sez  he. 

"Is  it  give  ye  the  horn  to  get  off?"  sez 
Jack:  "  Arrah,  conshumin'  to  me,  man," 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   283 

sez  he,  "that  horn  is  worth  a  ship's  cargo 
of  goold  an'  I  wouldn't  like  to  part  it  on  no 
account,"  sez  he. 

But  the  end  of  it  all  was  that  after  they 
had  bargained  an'  banthered  for  lee  an'  for 
long  the  Lord  High  Mayor  bought  the  horn 
off  Jack  for  a  hundred  guineas.  An'  off  he 
sets  with  the  horn,  himself  an'  the  sojers,  off 
for  Dublin,  as  delighted  as  if  he  was  made 
King  of  Irelan'.  An'  be  me  song,  he  was 
detarmined  not  to  keep  the  horn  long  till 
he'd  put  it  in  use.  So  he  went  out  that  very 
night,  an'  carousin'  till  long  l>y  midnight, 
knowin'  his  wife  would  be  waitin'  up  for  him 
to  give  him  a  barjin  with  the  tongue  as  usual. 
So  when  he  raiches  his  own  door  an'  raps  at 
it,  sure  enough  there  was  the  Missis  Lord 
High  Mayor  come  to  open  the  door,  with  a 
candle,  an'  as  soon  as  she  sees  him  she  opens 
on  him  at  once,  and  sez  she: 

"  Ay,  a  nice  how-do-ye-do  it  is,  comin' 
staggerin'  home  blin'  drunk,"  sez  she,  "at 
this  time  of  night — or  this  time  nixt  morn- 
in',  I  should  say.  A  nice  thing,  indeed," 
sez  she,  "  for  yer  poor  neggar-slave  of  a  wife 
to  be  waitin'  up  here  this  way,  night  an' 


284     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

nightly,  on  ye;  a  nice  example  it  is,  too,  to 
the  young  Lord  High  Mayors,"  sez  she,  "  an* 
purty  boys  they'll  be  when  they  get  up,  seein' 
nothin'  all  the  days  of  their  lives  but  you 
comin'  staggerin'  in  as  drunk  as  a  beggar 
every  night  when  they're  sound  asleep  in 
their  wee  beds,"  sez  she.  "A  purty  thing, 
indeed." 

"Will  ye  hould  yer  jaw,  ma'am?"  sez  he. 

"  No,  nor  I  won't  hould  me  jaw,"  sez  she. 

"  I  warn  ye  it'll  be  betther  for  ye  if  ye  do," 
sez  he,  "  for  if  ye  don't  I'll  soon  find  a  way 
of  makin'  ye." 

"  Jist  thry  that  for  a  thrick,"  sez  she,  "  ye 
dhrunkin'  scavinger  ye,  that's  good  for  noth- 
in' only  sihravagin*  the  town  afther  night," 
sez  she. 

"  Oh,  ye  long-tongued  hussy  ye! "  sez  he, 
"it's  the  life  of  a  dog  I  haven't  with  ye — 
but  I'll  soon  cure  ye,"  sez  he,  flyin'  at  her 
with  a  knife  that  he  plunged  into  her,  an' 
she  fell  over  dead  with  a  screech  that  wak- 
ened the  whole  house,  an'  sarvants  an'  all 
come  runnin'  down  to  the  door  to  see  what 
was  up,  or  what  was  the  matther  at  all. 

"  Oh! "  sez  the  first  of  them,  when  he 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   285" 

come  down,  an'  seen  his  misthress  murdhered 
"dead — "  Oh!  ye  hlack  murdherer,"  sez  he, 
"  what's  this  ye  have  done,  at  all,  at  all!  " 

"Faithn,  I'll  soon  let  ye  know  that,  me 
man,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  rushin'  at 
him  with  the  knife,  an'  leavin'  him  dead  on 
the  floor. 

Then  the  nixt  come  an*. 

"  Oh,  melia  murther! "  sez  he,  "  what's 
this — what's  this  ye  have  done  at  all,  at  all, 
ye  murtherin'  villain,  ye?  "  sez  he. 

"  I'll  show  you  that,  too,"  sez  the  Lord 
High  Mayor,  rushing  at  him  with  the  knife, 
an'  leavin'  him  dead  a-top  of  the  other  two. 

An'  every  one  o'  them,  sarvints  an'  family, 
an'  all,  as  they  corned  down,  they  went  to 
open  on  him  in  the  same  way,  with  a  melia 
murther!  An'  every  sowl  o'  them  he  left 
Btone  dead  inside  his  hall-door. 

But,  my  sawnies,  the  naybours  was  all 
awoke  with  the  melia  murtherin',  an'  the 
screechin',  an'  the  roarin'  comin'  out  of  the 
Lord  High  Mayor's;  an'  they  gathered  about 
the  door  with  the  polis  and  the  sojers,  an' 
they  saw  what  was  up,  an'  they  thought  the 
Lord  High  Mayor  was  gone  clean  cracked 


286     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

altogether;  an'  they  called  on  the  polls  an' 
sojers  to  saize  him  an'  carry  him  off  to  be 
hung  at  once,  afore  he'd  have  time  to  do 
more  harm.  But — 

"  No,  me  good  men,  just  hould  on  yez  a 
bit,"  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  sez  he,  "  an' 
I'll  show  yez  somethin'  'ill  open  yer  eyes,"  sez 
he.  An'  away  he  goes  for  his  horn  an'  fetched 
it,  an'  then  an'  there  commences  to  tell  them 
all  about  the  wondherful  powers  of  the  horn, 
an'  that  all  he'd  have  to  do  would  be  to  give 
one  wee  blast,  the  slightest  in  the  worP,  an' 
they'd  all  rise  up  as  well  as  ever  again. 

The  crowd  looked  at  the  horn,  an'  then 
looked  from  one  to  the  other  at  this.  An' 
then — 

"  "Well,  go  on  an'  do  it,"  sez  they,  "  till  we 
see." 

"  Yes,"  sez  he,  "  but  any  of  yez  would  be 
mindin'  to  get  yerselves  killed  first,  I  can 
do  it  right  handy  an'  aisy  with  this  little 
knife  here,  an'  give  yez  very  little  pain,  till 
I  fetch  yez  all  back  to  life  again  together." 

But  no;  they  all  stood  back  a  bit  from  him, 
an'  thanked  him,  an'  said  they'd  not  mind 
gettin'  killed  just  yet  till  they'd  see  him 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor    287 

fetch  back  the  detachment  he  had  killed, 
back  to  life  again  first. 

So  seem'  he  couldn't  persuade  none  of 
them  he  takes  the  horn,  an'  putting  it  to  his 
mouth,  he  siz: 

"  Now,  boys,  stand  back  a  bit  an'  give  a 
little  air>  for  when  this  crowd  rises  they'll 
be  all  dhrawin'  in  a  big  breath,  an'  they'll 
want  all  the  fresh  air  they  can." 

So  back  they  stood,  an*  the  Lord  High 
Mayor  put  his  mouth  to  the  horn,  an'  he 
blew  a  blast  an'  then  stepped  back  to  give 
them  room  to  rise,  but  the  sorra  a  wee  finger 
moved  in  the  heap. 

"Eh?"  sez  he,  "what's  that?  Did  none 
o'  them  get  up?  Maybe  they  didn't  hear  it." 

Some  one  in  the  crowd  said  he  was  of  the 
same  opinion  that  they  did  not  hear  it. 

"Ay,  that's  just  it,"  sez  he,  "they  did 
not  hear  it.  But  they'll  hear  this  one,  or  I 
haven't  a  mouth  on  me,"  sez  he,  puttin'  the 
horn  to  his  lips  again,  an'  blowin'  och!  a 
tearin'  wild  blast  entirely  that  shook  the  very 
windies  in  the  house.  But  conshumin'  to 
the  one  of  them  gave  any  more  sign  of  stir- 
rin'  than  if  they  were  so  many  stone  statieys. 


288    Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"What— what's  this  at  all,  at  all?"  sez 
he.  "  This  is  a  mighty  quare  thing,  in- 
tirely." 

An'  so  it  was  mighty  quare,  but,  all  lie 
could  do,  an'  all  he  could  hlow,  if  he  was 
to  blow  the  chist  out  o'  himself,  the  sorra 
resaive  the  one  o'  them  he  could  make  rise, 
of  course;  for  to  be  sure  they  were  as  dead 
as  a  nail  in  a  coffin,  an'  oh!  wirrasthrue!  that 
was  the  play  when  he  found  what  he  had 
done,  an'  what  that  scoundhril  Jack  led  him 
into  once  more.  An'  it  was  only  the  pity  o' 
the  people  for  him,  when  they  heard  his 
story,  an'  saw  the  rale  grief  he  was  in  for 
what  he  had  done,  not  mainin'  no  manner  o' 
means  of  harm  by  it,  that  saved  him  from 
bein'  strung  up  like  a  cured  herrin'  afore  his 
own  door.  But  they  put  pity  on  him,  an' 
they  let  him  off;  an'  no  sooner  was  he  off 
than  he  swore  all  sorts,  high  up  an'  low  down, 
that  he  would  never  rest  or  get  bit  or  sup 
in  contintmint  till  he'd  have  Jack  burned, 
beheaded,  hung,  dhrawn,  an'  quarthered,  on 
Dublin  sthreet,  an'  much  grass  he  didn't  let 
grow  under  his  heels  till  he  was  on  the  road 
once  more,  himself  an'  his  sojers,  detarmined 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   289 

to  have  Jack  this  time  be  hook  or  be  crook, 
surely,  an'  not  to  be  put  off  with  no  more 
of  his  palavers  or  his  thricks,  for  he  got 
enough  of  thim. 

An',  sure  enough,  it  wasn't  long  till  he 
lifts  the  latch  on  Jack's  door,  an'  walks  in, 
an'  catches  me  brave  Jack  sittin'  opposite  his 
ould  mother  across  the  fire,  the  both  o'  thim 
plannin'  what  they'd  do,  or  how  they'd  lay 
out  the  Lord  High  Mayor's  guineas  to  the 
best  advantage.  But  when  Jack  sees  him 
steppin'  in  up  he  jumps,  an' — 

"  Cead  mile  faille  a  thousand  times  over! 
an'  cead  mile  failte  over  again! "  says  Jack, 
"but  it's  meself's  the  glad  man  to  see  yer 
Lord  High  Mayorship  again.  Mother,  dar- 
lin',  why  don't  ye  move  yerself  an'  wipe  a 
chair  for  his  Lord  High  Mayorship  to  sit 
down  an'  take  a  shin-hate  at  our  little  fire. 
Troth,  it's  delighted  I  am,  if  ye'd  know  but 
all.  An'  how,  might  I  ax,  is  the  Missis  Lord 
High  Mayor — may  the  Lord  in  His  kindness 
presarve  her  to  ye! — an'  the  young " 

"  Come,  come,  ye  morodin',  deludhrin' 
rascal  ye! "  sez  the  Lord  High  Mayor,  "  I 
don't  want  no  more  of  yer  blarney,  for  it's 
19 


290     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

too  much  of  it,  to  me  own  loss,  I  got.  Come 
along  wit'  me  an'  get  into  this  sack  here," 
sez  he,  unrowlin'  a  sack  from  undher  his  arm 
that  he'd  fetched  special  to  tie  up  poor  Jack 
in,  so  he  couldn't  escape — "  Come  along  wit' 
me  an'  get  into  this  sack,  for  I'm  not  goin' 
to  be  done  any  more  he  yer  thricks.  Every 
dog  has  his  day,  an'  turn  about,  ye  know,  is 
fair  play.  You  had  your  thricks,  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  have  a  wee  one  o'  me  own  now. 
Jump  in  here,"  sez  he,  "  for  ye'll  never  ate 
the  bread  o'  corn  again." 

Me  poor  Jack  saw  there  was  nothin'  for 
it  now  only  to  obey,  so  kissin'  his  mother 
all  over,  an'  wishing  her  good-bye  for  ever, 
he  walked  into  the  sack,  an'  they  tied  the 
mouth  o'  it,  an'  throwin'  him  across  a  horse's 
back  set  off  for  Dublin.  But  there's  great 
depth  entirely  in  a  bottomless  barrel,  an* 
Jack  had  a  thrick  or  two  in  his  head  yet. 
When  they  raiched  half-ways  to  Dublin,  the 
day  bein'  hot  an'  the  road  long,  the  Lord 
High  Mayor,  when  he  come  to  a  shebeen  by 
the  roadside  said  he  was  blissed  if  he'd  pass 
it  without  thryin'  the  quality  of  the  poteen, 
for  that  his  throat  was  as  dhry  as  a  lime- 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor   291 

burner's  hat.  An'  the  sojers  was  noways 
objectionable  to  taste  a  dhrop  aither;  so 
leavin'  Jack  tied  up  in  the  sack,  across  the 
horse's  back,  they  went  in  an'  had  a  caroose. 
As  soon  as  me  brave  Jack  foun'  them  all  in 
he  commences  bemoanin'  "  Och,  I'll  not  take 
her!  I'll  not  take  her!  I'll  not  take  her,  at 
all,  at  all!  Och,  och,  I'll  not  take  her!  I'll 
not  take  her! "  When  what  would  ye  have 
of  it  but  there  comes  by  a  great  swell  en- 
tirely, dhressed  an'  starched  up  as  if  he  was 
just  steppin'  out  of  a  ban-box.  He  comes 
by,  an'  hearin'  Jack  callin'  out  "  I'll  not  take 
her!  I'll  not  take  her!  "  "  Halloa,  me  good 
man,"  sez  he,  "  what's  that  yer  sayin',  or  who 
will  ye  not  take?" 

"Oh,"  sez  Jack,  sez  he,  "it's  the  Lord 
High  Mayor  of  Dublin  wit'  his  sojers  is  car- 
ryin'  me  off  to  make  me  marry  his  ouldest 
daughter.  But  for  all  her  money  an'  all  her 
family,  she's  not  the  sort  o*  girl  for  me,  an' 
I  don't  want  her,  an'  I'll  not  take  her,  but 
they're  goin'  to  marry  me  again'  me  will — 
but  I'll  not  have  her  on  no  account — I'll  not 
take  her!  I'll  not  take  her!  I'll  not  take  her 
at  all,  at  all!  "  says  he  wit*  great  bemoanin'. 


292     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

"  I  say,  me  good  man/'  sez  the  swell,  "  will 
ye  let  me  swap  places  wit'  ye?  "  sez  he. 

"  I  will,"  sez  Jack,  "  but  on  one  account." 

"  What's  that?  "  sez  the  swell. 

"  As  you'll  be  comin'  into  a  mortial  grate 
fortune  wit'  her,  I  must  get  fifty  poun'  for 
allowin'  ye  to  take  me  place,"  sez  Jack. 

"  Done,"  sez  the  grate  swell. 

So,  out  he  loosed  Jack,  and  paid  him 
down  the  fifty  poun',  and  then  he  got  in  him- 
self, an'  Jack  tied  him  up  tight,  an'  warned 
him  not  to  spake  till  he'd  get  to  Dublin.  He 
tould  Jack  there  was  no  fear  o'  that.  Then 
Jack  wasn't  well  away  till  the  Lord  High 
Mayor  an'  his  sojers  came  out  o'  the  shebeen, 
an'  takin'  the  horse  by  the  head  they  started 
off  for  Dublin,  an'  no  sooner  were  they  there 
nor  the  Lord  High  Mayor  .ordhered  a  grate 
bonfire  to  be  lit.  An'  it  was  lit;  and  all  the 
people  gathered  to  see  the  rascal  Jack  roastin' 
— for  he  was  to  be  roasted  half  to  death  first. 
Then  the  sack  was  taken  by  four  men  an' 
heaved  into  the  middle  o'  the  flames;  an'  the 
mmnit  it  was  in,  the  roarin',  an'  the  screech- 
in',  an'  the  squealin',  an'  the  yellin',  an'  the 
bawlin',  an'  the  melia  murtherin'  started  in 


Jack  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor    293 

the  sack,  that  ye'd  think  there  was  nine  div- 
ils  in  it,  ivery  one  o'  them  makin'  more  noise 
nor  the  other;  an'  the  Lord  High  Mayor 
laughed,  an'  the  people  laughed,  an'  heartily 
enjoyed  seein'  poor  Jack  (as  they  thought) 
gettin'  such  a  good  scorchin',  an'  they  actu- 
ally danced  an'  whooped  roun'  it  with  de- 
light. Whin  they  thought  he  was  well 
enough  roasted  they  had  him  pulled  out,  an* 
— och,  that  was  the  play!  There  the  Lord 
High  Mayor  saw,  an'  all  the  people  saw,  it 
was  one  o'  the  greatest  jintlemen's  sons  in 
Dublin,  an'  a  very  grate  swell  entirely,  the 
greatest  in  the  whole  town,  that  they  had 
roasted,  an'  then  there  was  the  ructions! 
But  to  make  a  long  story  short,  the  swell's 
father  come,  an'  he  wanted  the  Lord  High 
Mayor  arrested,  and  the  Lord  High  Mayor- 
ship  to  be  taken  from  him,  an'  it  was  a  very 
narrow  nick  with  the  Lord  High  Mayor  or 
he'd  'a'  lost  his  life  over  it.  When  it  was  all 
over  he  shook  his  head  an'  said  that  rascal 
Jack  was  too  many  for  him  entirely,  and 
he'd  niver  go  near  him  more,  but  laive  him 
in  paice  for  the  remaindher  of  his  days.  An' 
Jack  an'  his  ould  mother  had  plinty  o' 


294     Through  the  Turf  Smoke 

money;  an'  when  his  mother  died  he  built 
a  castle  an'  married  a  great  lady  out  o'  Dub- 
lin, an'  lived  ever  afther  the  greatest  jintle- 
man  in  them  parts,  with  a  stable  o'  horses, 
an'  a  pack  o'  hounds,  an'  a  cellar  o'  wine, 
the  like  o'  which  wasn't  to  be  found  again 
within  the  four  corners  of  Ireland! — an'  sure 
it  was  all  only  his  disarts,  for  he  had  a  cliver 
head,  had  me  brave  Jack. 


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